Another repost from 2008
If You’re In Need of an Acid Trip at 6 A.M.
“Here use my cell phone. I have unlimited minutes“ is not such a strange statement. It does become stranger when said by a squirrel. On a cartoon show. While she (the squirrel) is riding around on a kid’s head. When the squirrel is built like a Russian nesting doll and is the voice of reason for a bunch of Canadian kids on a cartoon show it borders on WTF? When all of the kids on the cartoon are built like Russian nesting dolls and they hop around doing good deeds and spouting out Fargonian phrases like, “Don’t ya know” it becomes just a little much for a mom to take before 7 a.m.
This is just one of about three psychedelic cartoon shows on Playhouse Disney (by far the tamest of the cartoon channels) that lets me know that the 60’s are not dead. Apparently Disney has hired all of the ex-acid freaks to think up new and original cartoon concepts. The other one that I love to hate is the Doodlebops. I can’t do this one justice and you might just have to Google it, but I will try. Three characters with over the top costumes that make them appear to have either pink, blue, or orange skin. And they have BIG FREAKY PUFFY HANDS. And two out of three of them have really yellow teeth. And when I watch I can’t help but wonder why they didn’t make them bleach their teeth. I mean the orange guy has teeth that are obviously bleached and then Dee Dee(Miss Pink) and Roony (Mr. Blue) have distractingly yellow teeth.
There’s also a show called Bunny Town that has British Bunny Puppets that look like moths have been nibbling on them. Within each episode they somehow manage to incorporate a female sports reporter in a pink get up, knee socks, and a blond flip wig. Her name is Pinky Pinkerton. She commentates what looks like college football mascot Olympics for a while and then they switch back to the moth-eaten bunnies. Makes the damn Wiggles look downright normal.
But, really has it changed that much over the years? It’s no secret that one could do an entire thesis on the sociological and psychological implications of cartoons over the years. Tinker Bell and Peter Pan border on sociopathic. Bugs Bunny mocked the Japanese while Elmer Fudd stalked him with a shotgun. Tom and Jerry beat the hell out of each other and most of the cartoon characters smoked like fiends.
And then there was Scooby Doo. Who could forget Shaggy’s need for a smoke and a snack at every turn. These days the cartoons are as PC as Good Morning America. And damn if my kid doesn’t love them. Truly the more psychedelic the better. So here’s to cell phone carrying squirrels, pink puffy hands, and Scooby Snacks. I’ll take mine with coffee please.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Ok, so I'm still not feeling those creative pins and needles just yet, so here's another oldie but goody. This is one of my faves from way back.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Birthday Party Blues
I spent most of my Sunday at Chuck E Cheese. I could stop writing now and most of you, especially the parents, would completely understand my pain. Actually pain is really not the right word. It's not really a bad place. It just wears me out. First of all, you've got a singing rat. Then there are the prizes. You know the 50 cent bouncy ball that you spent $5 in tokens trying to win. And don't even get me started on the overpriced pizza. But all in all it's OK for easy, somewhat cheap entertainment. Especially when another parent is footing most of the bill. Yes, that's right we were there for a birthday party. A four-year old girl's princess birthday party. But, before I even give you the run-down of the party, let me tell you about the pre-party adventures.
First of all, I'd forgotten all about it until I found the invitation in my husband's car this morning (the day of the party). He had mentioned it to me, but, well, I forgot. In a panic I scanned the invitation looking for a time. However, my eyes landed on another four letter word. . . RSVP. And then I saw the RSVP date. . . .4/27/07. Two days ago. Whoopsy! Never fear, Mom's here. I called the other mommy and sweet talked Tucker's way into the pahrty, dahling. Next, get Tucker dressed. "No, Tucker you can not wear your red fireman boots. Yes, you must wear pants." Then there was the little issue of a gift. Easy. In my opinion that's why God invented Walgreens. Easy in, easy out, and cheap crap that kids love. And of course. . .gift bags. In 10 minutes we were set. And then, like clockwork, Tucker falls asleep in the car. Swell. Then I spilled coke all over my cute blue dress. And that's the way we walked in—sleepy, disheveled little boy and stressed out mommy with coke on her cute blue dress.
So, when we walk in, we don't know anyone besides the birthday girl. Awkward. All of the other parents know each other. And um, Tucker doesn't want to sit down and be sociable. He wants to go play. And, did I mention that he's the only boy there?
But, it got a little better. At least some other people that we knew showed up. And one of them was a boy! All in all it was really fun. Tucker did sit down to eat a bite of cake, but he was off again before the presents were opened. Of course I had to chase him around to make sure that he didn't get squashed by some sweaty kid with dirty socks. (My idea of hell). I did get to exchange numbers with another parent in hopes of arranging some play dates (code for free babysitting).
But, the day culminated with the birthday party girl's mom coming to tell me that she had just pulled Tucker out of the ski ball game. Yes, I mean out of it. At first I just of just laughed it off. But then I realized that this must be a big no no because she just sort of stared at me. So, I promptly excused myself to go pull my child out of the ski ball game--again. This proved to be harder than it sounds. Partly because my child is stubborn and mostly because I was in a little blue dress (with coke on it). Plus the woman whose stupid ski ball game Tucker apparently screwed up was looking at me like I was Satan. I had to get him off of that game. To do this I had to sort of crawl up the ski ball game while trying desperately not to show my ass (in more ways than one). At first he just looked at me. Then he smirked. Then he started to swing like a monkey from the railing on the game. "1-2-3—TIMEOUT," I sneered. Miraculously, this worked. He unhooked his monkeyesque grip and angelically walked down the ski ball ramp, jumped in my arms, and put his head on my shoulder. I kissed my little angel baby, gave a triumphant grin to the woman who thought I was Satan, and scurried out of the singing Rat's nest—better known as Chuck E. Cheese.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Birthday Party Blues
I spent most of my Sunday at Chuck E Cheese. I could stop writing now and most of you, especially the parents, would completely understand my pain. Actually pain is really not the right word. It's not really a bad place. It just wears me out. First of all, you've got a singing rat. Then there are the prizes. You know the 50 cent bouncy ball that you spent $5 in tokens trying to win. And don't even get me started on the overpriced pizza. But all in all it's OK for easy, somewhat cheap entertainment. Especially when another parent is footing most of the bill. Yes, that's right we were there for a birthday party. A four-year old girl's princess birthday party. But, before I even give you the run-down of the party, let me tell you about the pre-party adventures.
First of all, I'd forgotten all about it until I found the invitation in my husband's car this morning (the day of the party). He had mentioned it to me, but, well, I forgot. In a panic I scanned the invitation looking for a time. However, my eyes landed on another four letter word. . . RSVP. And then I saw the RSVP date. . . .4/27/07. Two days ago. Whoopsy! Never fear, Mom's here. I called the other mommy and sweet talked Tucker's way into the pahrty, dahling. Next, get Tucker dressed. "No, Tucker you can not wear your red fireman boots. Yes, you must wear pants." Then there was the little issue of a gift. Easy. In my opinion that's why God invented Walgreens. Easy in, easy out, and cheap crap that kids love. And of course. . .gift bags. In 10 minutes we were set. And then, like clockwork, Tucker falls asleep in the car. Swell. Then I spilled coke all over my cute blue dress. And that's the way we walked in—sleepy, disheveled little boy and stressed out mommy with coke on her cute blue dress.
So, when we walk in, we don't know anyone besides the birthday girl. Awkward. All of the other parents know each other. And um, Tucker doesn't want to sit down and be sociable. He wants to go play. And, did I mention that he's the only boy there?
But, it got a little better. At least some other people that we knew showed up. And one of them was a boy! All in all it was really fun. Tucker did sit down to eat a bite of cake, but he was off again before the presents were opened. Of course I had to chase him around to make sure that he didn't get squashed by some sweaty kid with dirty socks. (My idea of hell). I did get to exchange numbers with another parent in hopes of arranging some play dates (code for free babysitting).
But, the day culminated with the birthday party girl's mom coming to tell me that she had just pulled Tucker out of the ski ball game. Yes, I mean out of it. At first I just of just laughed it off. But then I realized that this must be a big no no because she just sort of stared at me. So, I promptly excused myself to go pull my child out of the ski ball game--again. This proved to be harder than it sounds. Partly because my child is stubborn and mostly because I was in a little blue dress (with coke on it). Plus the woman whose stupid ski ball game Tucker apparently screwed up was looking at me like I was Satan. I had to get him off of that game. To do this I had to sort of crawl up the ski ball game while trying desperately not to show my ass (in more ways than one). At first he just looked at me. Then he smirked. Then he started to swing like a monkey from the railing on the game. "1-2-3—TIMEOUT," I sneered. Miraculously, this worked. He unhooked his monkeyesque grip and angelically walked down the ski ball ramp, jumped in my arms, and put his head on my shoulder. I kissed my little angel baby, gave a triumphant grin to the woman who thought I was Satan, and scurried out of the singing Rat's nest—better known as Chuck E. Cheese.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Battles over broccoli
A repost about my awesome parenting skills! (and oh yeah I definitely had to look up the spelling of broccoli).
Monday, January 12, 2009
Here we go. . .battles over broccoli
If I hadn't yet thought of myself as a "real Mom" I did today. I heard myself saying those very real "Mom" words before I even realized it. "You will not leave this table until you eat at least one bite of that broccoli." Seriously, verbatim. I must say, in true grown up fashion. . .Braden started it! He made the broccoli so he wanted Tucker to try it. So, since I knew it was important to Braden, I laid down the law. To my credit it worked. He ate it. Not so much to my credit. . .he then threw it up.
Normally I wouldn't force the issue but there were 2 things at play here:
1) The child has weighed 42 lbs for about 2 years. He is 4 1/2 years old and he can wiggle his little ass into a 24 month swimsuit! Now, broccoli is not the gateway food to fattening up a child, but we're trying to get vitamins in him without them being made of gel and high fructose corn syrup.
2) He eats BROCCOLI for the babysitter! God bless her! So, really, we could disregard the vitamin part of Number 1 because he does get enough. And the kid does keep getting taller (1/2 as tall as me already--which isn't saying a lot, but still). He eats whatever my wonderful babysitter puts in front of him (mostly because the other kids are eating it). He just won't eat for us.
And, his dad made it, and his dad is a really, really good cook so I wanted Tucker to try it. But, Braden did put lemon juice on it and I think that is what turned Tucker away. And by turned away I mean, made him sniff it, shudder, wrinkle his nose, and give me a pitiful look. We persisted. Braden pulled off a little piece and Tucker licked it and then wiped his tongue with a paper towel. Awesome.
Finally he ate a piece and we let him get down. He crawled in my lap and I tried to get him to eat more. He wouldn't do it. Then I saw why. He couldn't open his mouth because he was STILL HOLDING THE BROCOLI IN HIS MOUTH! Then, when he saw that he was busted because I saw the green shoots sticking out of his mouth, he started laughing. And that's when he gagged and sort of puked up the brocoli into the trash can.
Score one for Tucker. Dad relented and Tucker ended up with a cookie. With icing on it. And sprinkles.
Good times!
Monday, January 12, 2009
Here we go. . .battles over broccoli
If I hadn't yet thought of myself as a "real Mom" I did today. I heard myself saying those very real "Mom" words before I even realized it. "You will not leave this table until you eat at least one bite of that broccoli." Seriously, verbatim. I must say, in true grown up fashion. . .Braden started it! He made the broccoli so he wanted Tucker to try it. So, since I knew it was important to Braden, I laid down the law. To my credit it worked. He ate it. Not so much to my credit. . .he then threw it up.
Normally I wouldn't force the issue but there were 2 things at play here:
1) The child has weighed 42 lbs for about 2 years. He is 4 1/2 years old and he can wiggle his little ass into a 24 month swimsuit! Now, broccoli is not the gateway food to fattening up a child, but we're trying to get vitamins in him without them being made of gel and high fructose corn syrup.
2) He eats BROCCOLI for the babysitter! God bless her! So, really, we could disregard the vitamin part of Number 1 because he does get enough. And the kid does keep getting taller (1/2 as tall as me already--which isn't saying a lot, but still). He eats whatever my wonderful babysitter puts in front of him (mostly because the other kids are eating it). He just won't eat for us.
And, his dad made it, and his dad is a really, really good cook so I wanted Tucker to try it. But, Braden did put lemon juice on it and I think that is what turned Tucker away. And by turned away I mean, made him sniff it, shudder, wrinkle his nose, and give me a pitiful look. We persisted. Braden pulled off a little piece and Tucker licked it and then wiped his tongue with a paper towel. Awesome.
Finally he ate a piece and we let him get down. He crawled in my lap and I tried to get him to eat more. He wouldn't do it. Then I saw why. He couldn't open his mouth because he was STILL HOLDING THE BROCOLI IN HIS MOUTH! Then, when he saw that he was busted because I saw the green shoots sticking out of his mouth, he started laughing. And that's when he gagged and sort of puked up the brocoli into the trash can.
Score one for Tucker. Dad relented and Tucker ended up with a cookie. With icing on it. And sprinkles.
Good times!
Oh. . . the pressure!
Oh. . .the pressure!
So, I finally bit the bullet and posted this blog for all of the world to peruse. And, yes there is an element of pressure that comes from hoping that people will think I’m smart, clever, poignant, informed, original, and generally not sappy or whiney. But, what I worry about most, is that people are going to realize that I’m not very nice. Well, maybe nice isn’t the word. If being nice means that I’m not mean then I am definitely nice. I think the word I’m actually looking for is irreverent. A lot of people knew me when I was a sweet, accommodating, perfectionistic, neurotic mess. To quote Ouiser Boudreaux (that’s Weezer for you non IMDB folks) from Steel Magnolias, “I’m not as sweet as I used to be.” The old Amy would never, ever have used the word perfectionistic when it is clearly not a word. But, that Amy sort of had to let it all go when she became a bread winning, MBA getting, PhD considering, working mom and wife with not one single family member anywhere in a 200 mile radius. Amazing what that will do for your need to be perfectionistic! Or maybe I just quit worrying about being perfect (I mean if a U.S. president can make up words why can’t I???)
But it did take me a long time to come to terms with the idea that the whole world will realize that I’m pretty much a loony liberal with a really laid-back parenting style who works too much, cusses a lot, and uses way too many exclamation points!!—hyphens, and. . . .ellipsis (is it possible to say that word without lispithing?). Um, let’s see what else should I just throw out there now? I seriously can not spell and I think I am guilty of the occasional comma splice. I tend to be on the computer a lot, but I am pretty good at multi-tasking so don’t worry that things aren’t getting done. I am far from perfect and have my share of secrets, mistakes, regrets, triumphs, fears, and failures. But, I can be funny every now and then too. Oh, and one more thing, I’m sure at some point I will slip up and allude to the fact that I think my kiddo is brilliant. But I will be sure to temper that with a story about him being expelled for rolling his eyes at the teacher or some other irreverent thing that he learned from me. (Duhhhh mom!)
So, feel free to let me know if I touch a nerve. Now that I’ve hyped this up it will all seem syrupy sweet and innocent. And maybe that was my evil plan all along! Because I am intelligentable like that. Heh, heh, heh!
So, I finally bit the bullet and posted this blog for all of the world to peruse. And, yes there is an element of pressure that comes from hoping that people will think I’m smart, clever, poignant, informed, original, and generally not sappy or whiney. But, what I worry about most, is that people are going to realize that I’m not very nice. Well, maybe nice isn’t the word. If being nice means that I’m not mean then I am definitely nice. I think the word I’m actually looking for is irreverent. A lot of people knew me when I was a sweet, accommodating, perfectionistic, neurotic mess. To quote Ouiser Boudreaux (that’s Weezer for you non IMDB folks) from Steel Magnolias, “I’m not as sweet as I used to be.” The old Amy would never, ever have used the word perfectionistic when it is clearly not a word. But, that Amy sort of had to let it all go when she became a bread winning, MBA getting, PhD considering, working mom and wife with not one single family member anywhere in a 200 mile radius. Amazing what that will do for your need to be perfectionistic! Or maybe I just quit worrying about being perfect (I mean if a U.S. president can make up words why can’t I???)
But it did take me a long time to come to terms with the idea that the whole world will realize that I’m pretty much a loony liberal with a really laid-back parenting style who works too much, cusses a lot, and uses way too many exclamation points!!—hyphens, and. . . .ellipsis (is it possible to say that word without lispithing?). Um, let’s see what else should I just throw out there now? I seriously can not spell and I think I am guilty of the occasional comma splice. I tend to be on the computer a lot, but I am pretty good at multi-tasking so don’t worry that things aren’t getting done. I am far from perfect and have my share of secrets, mistakes, regrets, triumphs, fears, and failures. But, I can be funny every now and then too. Oh, and one more thing, I’m sure at some point I will slip up and allude to the fact that I think my kiddo is brilliant. But I will be sure to temper that with a story about him being expelled for rolling his eyes at the teacher or some other irreverent thing that he learned from me. (Duhhhh mom!)
So, feel free to let me know if I touch a nerve. Now that I’ve hyped this up it will all seem syrupy sweet and innocent. And maybe that was my evil plan all along! Because I am intelligentable like that. Heh, heh, heh!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
I drank the Austin Kool Aid
Here's another repost for my fellow Austin, Tejas lovers (or those who might want to visit).
Keep Austin Kool, August 31, 2008
I saw something today that touched my heart. It also made me realize how much I've changed personally in the last three or four years. I've finally learned that just being happy is about the most important thing in the world. Coincidentally I've lived in Austin, Texas for over three years. Changes in Latitudes I guess. However, I never thought that I would find commonality in my pursuit of happiness with a homeless lady, a BMW, and a pack of smokes. Should of known, though, it's Austin.
So, here it goes.
I was sitting at a red and a homeless lady was walking toward me with a sign that said, "Lost Everything. Please Help." Austin has a relatively large homeless population. The self-proclaimed "Live Music Capital of the World" has a way of sucking people in from all over the country and then spitting them back on its streets when they fail to become the next Janis Joplin or Stevie Ray Vaughn. So, I was sitting there feeling bad for the lady and wishing that I had something besides pennies in the cup holder of my 7 year old Ford Escape with 167,000+ miles on it when I noticed an arm reaching out of the little black Beamer in front of me. A tan female arm with a nice watch and manicured nails. And then the coolest thing happened. The blond lady at the other end of the arm handed the homeless lady a pack of smokes. They exchanged a couple of words and then the homeless lady smiled and tucked the smokes in her pocket and kept on making her way down the row of cars. The lady in the Beamer rolled up the window and waited for the light to change. Neither of them felt the need to make too much small talk. For some reason the whole exchange gave me a sense of peace and a feeling that things were actually more right with the world than I'd thought 2 minutes before.
(And before you get up on that high horse keep on reading). . .
There was a time when I would have had the condescending thought that she shouldn't have given the homeless lady smokes. But in that moment I realized that the Beamer lady completely got it. It was like she knew exactly what would mean the most to that homeless lady in that particular moment. Yeah, maybe the homeless lady would have liked some cash but maybe the Beamer lady only had pennies in her cup holder too. Maybe she thought it was safer to give the lady smokes rather than cash. Who knows. Doesn't matter. It was just cool. Sitting there between two walls of limestone, hundreds of gorgeous homes, millions of Lance Armstrong wannabe cyclists, some Harley riding hippies, and the homeless, I realized that Austin is the coolest city in the U.S. No matter if your rockin', smokin', beggin', or just L-I-V-I-N, Austin loves you. Keep Austin Weird, Keep Austin Kool.
Keep Austin Kool, August 31, 2008
I saw something today that touched my heart. It also made me realize how much I've changed personally in the last three or four years. I've finally learned that just being happy is about the most important thing in the world. Coincidentally I've lived in Austin, Texas for over three years. Changes in Latitudes I guess. However, I never thought that I would find commonality in my pursuit of happiness with a homeless lady, a BMW, and a pack of smokes. Should of known, though, it's Austin.
So, here it goes.
I was sitting at a red and a homeless lady was walking toward me with a sign that said, "Lost Everything. Please Help." Austin has a relatively large homeless population. The self-proclaimed "Live Music Capital of the World" has a way of sucking people in from all over the country and then spitting them back on its streets when they fail to become the next Janis Joplin or Stevie Ray Vaughn. So, I was sitting there feeling bad for the lady and wishing that I had something besides pennies in the cup holder of my 7 year old Ford Escape with 167,000+ miles on it when I noticed an arm reaching out of the little black Beamer in front of me. A tan female arm with a nice watch and manicured nails. And then the coolest thing happened. The blond lady at the other end of the arm handed the homeless lady a pack of smokes. They exchanged a couple of words and then the homeless lady smiled and tucked the smokes in her pocket and kept on making her way down the row of cars. The lady in the Beamer rolled up the window and waited for the light to change. Neither of them felt the need to make too much small talk. For some reason the whole exchange gave me a sense of peace and a feeling that things were actually more right with the world than I'd thought 2 minutes before.
(And before you get up on that high horse keep on reading). . .
There was a time when I would have had the condescending thought that she shouldn't have given the homeless lady smokes. But in that moment I realized that the Beamer lady completely got it. It was like she knew exactly what would mean the most to that homeless lady in that particular moment. Yeah, maybe the homeless lady would have liked some cash but maybe the Beamer lady only had pennies in her cup holder too. Maybe she thought it was safer to give the lady smokes rather than cash. Who knows. Doesn't matter. It was just cool. Sitting there between two walls of limestone, hundreds of gorgeous homes, millions of Lance Armstrong wannabe cyclists, some Harley riding hippies, and the homeless, I realized that Austin is the coolest city in the U.S. No matter if your rockin', smokin', beggin', or just L-I-V-I-N, Austin loves you. Keep Austin Weird, Keep Austin Kool.
I don't like change. . .
That being said, I've taken the plunge and set up a blog on something besides MySpace. Yes, you crazy haters, at long last I've been converted to Facebook, I'm working on Twitter, and I am attempting to blog somewhere else. But, I have not deleted the "Space" just yet. Mostly because I'm stubborn. But also because I still like it over there too. (Oh, yeah. . .I said it!) LOTS of great people watching and LOTS of people that I love!
But anyway that's not overly important. What is important is that I get my creative juices flowing again so that some of yous guys might want to read THIS particular bloggity blog blog. Until then I'm just going to repost the blogs that have been posted on, ahem. . . MySpace. . .for quite some time. So all you high brow haters can see what you've been missing in that other wonderful world of nonsense and fakebelieve. Let me know what you think, puhlease. . .I am a whore for comments! (Oh yeah. . .I really did just say that too!)
But anyway that's not overly important. What is important is that I get my creative juices flowing again so that some of yous guys might want to read THIS particular bloggity blog blog. Until then I'm just going to repost the blogs that have been posted on, ahem. . . MySpace. . .for quite some time. So all you high brow haters can see what you've been missing in that other wonderful world of nonsense and fakebelieve. Let me know what you think, puhlease. . .I am a whore for comments! (Oh yeah. . .I really did just say that too!)
The Great Toothpaste Caper
OK. . .here is the first repost from the, ahem, other blog "space". This is one of my faves. . .although it's a little long. Pretty much sums up the crazyland that is my house in Austin. Let me know if you can relate!
The Great Toothpaste Caper, October 16, 2008
Yesterday morning I had what might have been my first "senior moment". I'm only 32, er. . 31. (Was that another one?). I could write a whole other diatribe about how silly I used to think people were when they acted like they can't remember how old they are. But now I too have joined that crowd. Unless it's a milestone you can forget it. But anyway, back to the state of my distracted mind.
Yesterday I lost a brand new tube of toothpaste between my downstairs kitchen and my upstairs bathroom. Seriously. I went out to the car to get the toothpaste because it was still in there from the weekend when I made a special trip to the store to get it. I apparently needed it so much that it got to sit in my car all weekend. So, yesterday (Tuesday) I could squeeze no more out of the old tube and decided to hike down the stairs, into the garage, and into the abyss of my kid friendly back seat—(that's code for a reeking mess of cookie crumbs, toys, art projects, pajamas, and in this case a long-lost tube of toothpaste).
Triumphantly I pranced back into the house just as Indiana Jones (with whom my son is obsessed) escaped across the screen with some lost artifact. Poetic? I vote Yes. And in that moment, while watching my son pretend to be Indy, acting out the poison dart booby trap scene with more precision than a four-year old has the right too, I LOST THE BLESSED TOOTHPASTE! Indy would be so disappointed. I couldn't even blame it on Bellock.
By that point I was upstairs but with no toothpaste in hand. I remembered throwing away the grocery store bag that the toothpaste came in. Did I throw the stupid toothpaste away too? I went downstairs and looked in the trash. I looked on the kitchen table and even in the backseat of my car—again. Nope. I went upstairs and looked in the other bathroom where I'd just dried my hair. Nope. I looked in my own bathroom again—carefully this time. Nope. I asked my husband if he saw me put it down anywhere. "Nope." (Standard answer-don't know why I even ask). The sad part was that I KNEW it would show up later in a very obvious spot. I knew I was overlooking it and I didn't have the where-with-all to conduct a more careful search.
The only other time that I remember being that distracted was in the week leading up to my wedding. I spent a good minute and a half trying to rub off nail polish with Hydrogen Peroxide—cussing the whole time about why it wasn't working. That same week I managed to get out of the shower having shaved only one leg. But that was understandable because I was planning a wedding, working full-time, etc. (Actually in hindsight it was nothing compared to the three-ring circus I've created for myself now, but you can't tell a 23 year old anything).
Anyway, as you might imagine the toothpaste was in the cardboard package on the bathroom counter beside the sink where I brush my teeth every morning. Really. I called myself looking for it and really couldn't find it. In coming in from the garage I apparently bolted up the stairs and back down without remembering that I had done so. Really. There is no telling what called me back downstairs. Perhaps Indiana Tucker was about to bullwhip the cat into submission. Just another day in the Davis house.
It just goes to show how much we change. When I was young and I couldn't find something my mom would say, "Ok but if I have to come in there and find it you're going to be sorry." And now, I think, "God please let my mother move down here and take care of my sorry self before I Hydrogen Peroxide my teeth and try to shave one leg with nail polish remover while I rub off the nail polish with the toothpaste just for grins!" Amen.
The Great Toothpaste Caper, October 16, 2008
Yesterday morning I had what might have been my first "senior moment". I'm only 32, er. . 31. (Was that another one?). I could write a whole other diatribe about how silly I used to think people were when they acted like they can't remember how old they are. But now I too have joined that crowd. Unless it's a milestone you can forget it. But anyway, back to the state of my distracted mind.
Yesterday I lost a brand new tube of toothpaste between my downstairs kitchen and my upstairs bathroom. Seriously. I went out to the car to get the toothpaste because it was still in there from the weekend when I made a special trip to the store to get it. I apparently needed it so much that it got to sit in my car all weekend. So, yesterday (Tuesday) I could squeeze no more out of the old tube and decided to hike down the stairs, into the garage, and into the abyss of my kid friendly back seat—(that's code for a reeking mess of cookie crumbs, toys, art projects, pajamas, and in this case a long-lost tube of toothpaste).
Triumphantly I pranced back into the house just as Indiana Jones (with whom my son is obsessed) escaped across the screen with some lost artifact. Poetic? I vote Yes. And in that moment, while watching my son pretend to be Indy, acting out the poison dart booby trap scene with more precision than a four-year old has the right too, I LOST THE BLESSED TOOTHPASTE! Indy would be so disappointed. I couldn't even blame it on Bellock.
By that point I was upstairs but with no toothpaste in hand. I remembered throwing away the grocery store bag that the toothpaste came in. Did I throw the stupid toothpaste away too? I went downstairs and looked in the trash. I looked on the kitchen table and even in the backseat of my car—again. Nope. I went upstairs and looked in the other bathroom where I'd just dried my hair. Nope. I looked in my own bathroom again—carefully this time. Nope. I asked my husband if he saw me put it down anywhere. "Nope." (Standard answer-don't know why I even ask). The sad part was that I KNEW it would show up later in a very obvious spot. I knew I was overlooking it and I didn't have the where-with-all to conduct a more careful search.
The only other time that I remember being that distracted was in the week leading up to my wedding. I spent a good minute and a half trying to rub off nail polish with Hydrogen Peroxide—cussing the whole time about why it wasn't working. That same week I managed to get out of the shower having shaved only one leg. But that was understandable because I was planning a wedding, working full-time, etc. (Actually in hindsight it was nothing compared to the three-ring circus I've created for myself now, but you can't tell a 23 year old anything).
Anyway, as you might imagine the toothpaste was in the cardboard package on the bathroom counter beside the sink where I brush my teeth every morning. Really. I called myself looking for it and really couldn't find it. In coming in from the garage I apparently bolted up the stairs and back down without remembering that I had done so. Really. There is no telling what called me back downstairs. Perhaps Indiana Tucker was about to bullwhip the cat into submission. Just another day in the Davis house.
It just goes to show how much we change. When I was young and I couldn't find something my mom would say, "Ok but if I have to come in there and find it you're going to be sorry." And now, I think, "God please let my mother move down here and take care of my sorry self before I Hydrogen Peroxide my teeth and try to shave one leg with nail polish remover while I rub off the nail polish with the toothpaste just for grins!" Amen.
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