False Alarm

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 9:29 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 292010
 

A few years ago, shortly after moving into my newly constructed home, fire trucks went around and had to evacuate some of the homes in our neighborhood due to a gas leak.  We heard and saw them driving up and down streets and really didn’t have a clue as to what was happening.  Our home was one of the first completed in our phase and for a number of months our closest neighbor was 2 blocks away.  When the trucks finally reached our house they informed us we had to leave until the leak was under control.

One day, several months later, we were enjoying a beautiful Saturday with the boys and had the windows open.  I began noticing a strong odor tainting the steady breeze we had blowing into the house.  After an hour or so, it became so bad that my eyes began to water, and once I noticed the boys were suffering the same smelly symptom, I shut the windows.  I began to worry there was some freak chemical leak and the kids were going to suffer permanent damage from breathing in toxic fumes.

However, after an hour or so with the windows shut the smell seemed to dissipate.  My husband had also given me another talk on my tendency to overreact, and I finally began to relax a bit.  That is, until I heard the sirens.

At first, the sound of multiple firetrucks began off in the distance miles away.  Slowly, over the next several hours, the sound slowly got closer and closer.  I kept alternating between the window and my computer scanning for news on a chemical leak.  My husband’s theory was maybe it was a wedding or something for someone in the fire department. Ridiculous! I knew he’d be singing a different tune once we were evacuated and being treated for toxic fumes at a local Red Cross Shelter.

The sun had now begun to set on what I feared was the last day of our lives.  Just after dark I saw the lights coming. Three trucks began driving through the development with lights and sirens. “Get the kids!! Joe, get the kids!! We’re leaving!!”  I shouted.  I wasn’t about to wait for them to go to the other 150 homes first and risk further damage to my kid’s lungs.  We were clearly at the other end of the development and I remembered how long it took for them to inform all the other residents of the gas leak the winter before.

Have I mentioned before I might not be the best person to have around in a true emergency? I grabbed a clothes basket, threw in several outfits for each of us, several empty clean bottles, formula, granola bars and diapers.  I then grabbed a case of bottled water in the event we needed uncontaminated water for baby bottles.  If I had gas masks I would have grabbed them too.

“Susan, shouldn’t we wait and see what’s happening” my husband boldly questioned on the front lawn.  “Do you want to risk the health of your children?!  Cause I don’t!  I call from the car…Let’s.Go.Now.” I frantically pleaded.  My husband, God Bless him, in times like this probably just assumes it’s better to go along for the ride (literally in this case).  So off we went.  I remember turning around and looking back at our house, who knows when we’d be back. I said I silent prayer for those brave fighters who were risking their own health to evacuate the whole town, I supposed.

I called my parents first, my mother was obviously confused as to why we were coming to her house, and I quickly hung up the phone and called the fire station. “Hello, I’m calling about the fire trucks driving through our neighborhood.  We’ve already left and I wanted to know where the leak was…” I said.  “Ma’am, I’m sorry did you say leak? What leak?” the male dispatcher questioned.  “You know the leak. We smelled it earlier; it was so bad our eyes were watering. We closed the window, and we heard your trucks for hours.  I didn’t want to wait until they got to our house like the last time there was a leak.  I have young children; we left the house.  Are you saying there’s no leak?” I questioned.

At this point, I do not look over at my husband who I can feel looking at me. “Uh, Ma’am…our guys participated in a national tournament and won something pretty big today.  They’ve been celebrating by driving through the town, parade style,  even in and out of the developments.  We got first place and the guys are showing off…” he said seriously but with an obvious effort not to laugh at me.  “Now, what’s your address, we’ll send someone over to check out the leak.”

As we headed back home, my husband took the boys and said “when the trucks get here, this is all you!”  So I sat on the front stoop, waiting for the breeze, no praying for a breeze, so that the firemen could smell the toxic fumes on the wind.  As the trucked pulled up to the house, and I saw it was full of firemen in their gear, I contemplate just throwing myself under the shiny red truck.  The panic of my children being in danger was wearing off, and the realization that I’m a total spaz was setting in…after the ten or so volunteer fire fighters unloaded off the truck, one identified himself as being in charge.  I began to tell him about the gas leak in the winter, the smell in the morning, our eyes watering,  and finally the trucks coming in the neighborhood.  The entire squad (or whatever a gaggle of firemen is called) began to laugh.  In his best effort to remain professional, one began by asking me a question.  “How long have you lived here?” Knowing for sure I was an idiot at this point, I replied less than a year.  He asked if I ever smelled anything similar before and I told him I had not and this was my first self-determined evacuation. “Well, you see, Ma’am, there’s a Hanover Food’s Plant on the other side of town…and on days like today, when the wind is really whippin’ you can smell it all the way over here at your house.  I smelled the very same thing this morning.  They must be processing onions.” Cue a roar of laughter. “So the strong odor (which to this day I swear was not like any onion I’ve ever had) which made your eyes tear was just them adding onions.”

The good news about this day was that I realized you cannot die of embarrassment. The bad news is that I have to chaperon my son’s class to the fire station (the same one where these heroes are from) on Friday.  Did I mention this was a small town?  I’m thinking of dying my hair, wearing a mustache and dark glasses.  Did I also mention that this was only one of a couple super embarrassing events in the last couple years with said fire station?  I’ll save the others for another day, but keep me in your thoughts and prayers for Friday. I feel another “moment” coming on…

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You look good…considering…

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 10:07 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 282010
 

She seemed to glide, almost swan like, over and around puddles through the pouring rain.  It cascaded down her umbrella, and she smiled as tiny raindrops splashed around her.  She still had a youthful grace, and as the wind kissed her face it blew her curls upwards.  She giggled as she pranced through the parking lot and finally skipped over a large puddle and up over the curb. She was finally close enough for him to realize he did in fact know her, although  she seemed not to see nor recognize him yet.  He gallantly swung the door open to let her inside.  As she scooted past into the lobby of the store she thanked him, but still had not looked up.  She shook her umbrella and played with a curl which had stuck to the side of her face.  “You’re welcome, Susan.” he said coolly.  Surprised she looked up and finally met his gaze.  Although it had been a number of years since she saw him last, for a moment, it seemed like yesterday. In reality it was almost like a life time.  They had dated, before she even met her husband, and was in the “prime” of her life.  She was young, 21 or 22 years old, working out daily, eating well, no real responsibilities.  For a moment she felt self conscious…perhaps he sensed it too because he said “It’s really wonderful to see you. The years have certainly been kind…you look as beautiful today as you did 10 years ago…”

Not.

Sadly, it was not exactly that way.  The storm was unforgiving, and as I ran from the back of the parking lot, the rain beating down on my umbrella, the winds began to blow my hair (and umbrella) upwards.  After struggling through puddles and pouring rain, I quickly said screw the umbrella and nearly ran over a man trying to get inside the lobby of the mall.  I excused myself as I barreled passed him, umbrella now fully inside-out and hair half soaked ready and willing to begin frizzing. “Well, Susan…”he trailed off. “You always were rather rude.”  I looked up at the man’s face, a familiar one, a ghost from my past.  It had been nearly a decade since we had seen each other, and aside from a few lines and a slightly receded hairline, he looked much the same.

I swiftly apologized for nearly stabbing him with my inside-out umbrella, and told him he looked great and asked how he’d been.  After telling me about his job and family, he indicated someone had told him about my blog and he had read a post or two I had written.  He then proceeded to lean in closer to me and say, “you must be exaggerating though because you don’t have a mustache (read here or here or here if you didn’t read what he did), but you do (insert dickish laugh) have some 5 o’clock eyebrow stuff going on!” and laughed loudly.

I then feel my face contort in a manner which I had no actual control over, and I instantly remembered how un-funny this man was a decade before.  Apparently, some things never change.  Perhaps this was a look he had seen those ten years ago, because he then quickly apologized if he “insulted” me.  He then began an awkward ramble of how he thought the blog was “funny” and how great it was that I “put myself out there like that,” and that my kids were cute and I “looked good, real good…considering…”

At this moment his pointless babble was only further irritating me, and if I could have grabbed the proverbial shovel he was using to dig himself a deeper hole, if only to strike him over his head so I could go about my shopping, I would have done it.  Instead I held up my hand and motioned for him to “shush.”  I then told him it was “nice” to see him and it brought back a lot of old “memories.”  He started to speak, but upon looking in my eyes, nodded and we walked our separate ways.

As I went about my shopping and pondered how he managed to get even dumber than he was ten years ago, it also came to me that maybe it was a little my fault as well.  It’s easy for me to sit here at my computer and put up what I think are amusing stories or to share things about myself (like my mustache) that normally not everyone might be privy to if you saw me in person.  I also don’t broadcast some of my more embarrassing moments (read here or here or here), to everyone I see.  So as I sit here and type about how I was insulted when someone pointed at my Tom Selleck style mustache or eyebrow stubble, I guess I only have me to blame. Perhaps if I wasn’t broadcasting across the world wide web and poking fun at myself, most people wouldn’t be bringing it up?

So people…if I see you out on the street and you happen to read these blogs, I’d love to hear your opinion and any stories you might have that will make me feel better about my own often disastrous life, but please (please!) take it easy on me.  Let’s keep the mustache jokes to a minimum; I’m actually more sensitive than I appear! (Plus, I might blog about you!) Jackass!

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Nightmare on my street

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 2:57 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 252010
 

The house seemed darker than normal yesterday morning, and as I peered out the window I saw a thick layer of fog hanging over the neighborhood that gave me a sudden shutter. I swiftly closed the curtains and softly moved down the dark hallway, perplexed at why the kid’s bathroom door was closed and the light was off. Typically, I go around in the evenings shutting off bedroom lights, hallway lights, but always leave their bathroom light on and the door at least half way open.

I peeked in both of the boys rooms and saw they were still soundly sleeping, and I lingered for a moment at Jake’s door wondering why the bathroom door would be shut. Maybe my husband did it on his way to bed? No, not likely. Just as unlikely was the thought that one of the boys turned off the light, shut the door and walked back to their room in the dark.

I reached out my hand and touched the door knob, just holding it there for a moment. What was I afraid of? Surely a burglar wouldn’t be hiding waiting to jump out at me. Last I checked, although it some times felt like it, this also wasn’t an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Some crazed knife wielding killer wasn’t lurking behind the shower curtain. “Turn the knob, Susan.” I told myself, but my hand stayed motionless. Why am I not opening this door. That’s it, no more paranormal shows at bedtime if this is how I was going to act. I’m cutting myself off. How ridiculous was it for a 32 year old woman to be afraid to go in a bathroom?!

A sudden noise behind me made me jump and grab my chest. Joey, like the ninja that he was born to be, had climbed out of bed, opened his door, and made it all the way down the hallway before I heard him. “What are you doing, Mom?” Before I could answer he was already on to his next question, “Can I have Frosted Flakes for breakfast, pleeeeease?” I quickly shushed him and hurried him back into his room. After picking out his outfit for the day, I instructed him to get dressed, and returned to the bathroom door.

Before opening the door, I turned and peered down the slightly lighter hallway and could see the dense fog just outside the window through a crack in the curtains. I immediately resolved that the spooky weather conditions coupled with the late night paranormal shows must be fueling my imagination. Even with that rationalization fresh in my mind, I found myself turning the door knob ever so slowly.

As I began to push the door open with one hand and lean into the bathroom, I half smiled thinking how the creaking of the door was playing right into the terrifying tale my mind was weaving. The door was now completely open, and although the small bathroom was still totally dark, it was apparent that no one was hiding in the shower and that aside from the darkness, it was just a bathroom. Feeling slightly relieved, my arm outstretched and I flicked the switch on the wall.

In a flash, a scene far more terrifying that any horror movie I had ever watched was now illuminated right before me. I started to yell out, but my voice caught in my throat. Joey immediately ran up behind me and I felt as though I might faint. Was it a bloody scene there in the bathroom? Words of terror scribbled on the wall from the great beyond? No, no. It was far worse.

“What is that?!” Joey questioned which immediately cleared him as a suspect.  My chest tightened as I tried to give him an explanation.  “That, Joey… Oh, my God…” I rambled hardly able to complete a thought, “that is poop….poop everywhere.”

Poop smeared on the toilet seat. Poop smeared under the seat, down the front of the toilet bowl. Poop on the tub. Poop on the rug. Poop on the sink. Poop in the sink. Poop on the light switch. Poop. Poop. Poop.

My thoughts turned immediately to Jake, the obvious culprit.  I opened his door and he still laid there in bed, under the covers, sleeping like an angel.  I flicked on his light and he didn’t stir. Looking around his room I saw two dark spots on his rug in front of his closet and directly next to a couple of Pull-Ups.  Just like when detectives and crime scene investigators on the popular TV cop dramas put the pieces of a mystery together and replay the scene, showing us the viewers what happened, I too painted myself a mental picture.

Jake, who has now been potty trained even at night, for at least a couple months must have gone to the bathroom sometime in the night to do his business.  Either he called out and didn’t wake us or he decided to wipe himself and smeared poop all over the seat as he climbed down.  He bent over in front of the toilet to wipe, but was standing too close and smeared poo on the front of the bowl.  Going to reposition himself, he turns, bends again and hits the side of the tub with his apparent shit covered ass, stamping several “Mr. Hanky” style poo splotches as he moves.  In the attempt to wipe his own rear he gets more poo on his hands. He sits on the rug to get redressed leaving another smudge of poo on the rug.  He  then attempts to wash the evidence off his hands, but before that happens he leaves behind several shitty finger and hand prints in and on the sink.  Upon seeing the mess he is about to leave behind, the toddler thinks quickly and shuts off the light and closes the door behind him as he leaves.  He then returns to his room where he discards the poop stained Pull-Up and trades it for a new one, but not before rubbing even more poop into the fabric of his rug.

My first instinct is to wake him and bathe him in an alcohol based solution like Purell.  I resist this urge and first Clorox the bathroom.  I use nearly an entire container of wipes and go over every inch of the room, including places I’m sure he didn’t reach.  My obsessive/compulsive disorder kicks into overdrive as I fight to kill every shitty germ in that bathroom.  I go over surfaces multiple times, and still feel like the bathroom is coated in e-coli.

Jake got a bath in antibacterial hand soap, and again I resisted the urge to clean his nails with an antibacterial wipe and just used the baby nail brush to remove the remnants of the bathroom disaster from the night before.  After taking the boys to school, I then scrubbed the rug in Jake’s room with Spot Shot, sanitized his sheets and blankets, and cleaned the bathroom one more time just for good measure.

The next time I get that scared, creepy feeling in the pit of my stomach, I won’t be so quick to dismiss it.  No it wasn’t a ghost, or a  murderer or an alien.  For someone like me… someone phobic about germs it was far worse. It was a real life shit-astrophe.

Either Jake or "Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo" (shown above) made the biggest mess with poop to date

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TGIF

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 1:56 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 192010
 

I closed the door behind me and stood in the small empty room for a moment just absorbing the silence that comes from being alone.  A moment to myself these days is rare to come by, at least before bedtime. Showering usually buys me 15 minutes or so, but now that I want to look “normal” for my kids when I transport them to and from school, I’ve been showering before they even get up, instead of in the evenings. Intentionally waking up early before the kids does not, or at least should not, constitute as alone time.

As I slowly sat down, I briefly closed by eyes, enjoying the solitude. Many who sit, just like I did then, use it to contemplate life’s great mysteries or to develop great ideas; I used this seat, in this brief moment, to think of nothing. As I sit and absorb the silence, my mind slowly goes blank. Nothing flows through my mind as I just sit….and pee.

A loud noise and sudden movement of the door handle made me jump, although I shouldn’t have been surprised to hear the sound of Jake calling my name and the door swing wildly open. “Delivery truck is here, Mom!”

As I began to yell at Jake to close the door, my pleas began to become a bit more frantic as I realized the front door was open and the delivery man, who I have known for three years now, has on occasion called through the screen and placed a box just inside my front door.  This may seem like nothing to be alarmed about, but my front door and powder room are literally right next to each other. See below:

Jake stands in between the front and bathroom doors.

Jake who, as usual, is oblivious to my commands, continues to tell me over and over that the delivery man is here.  The door, which is swung all the way open, makes me afraid to reach out and close it because it would clearly put me in Jim the delivery man’s  field of vision. My decision, instantly becomes the apparent right choice, and I hear him just outside the front door.  I immediately decide to hold my ground on the toilet and not make another sound until he leaves which must be only moments away.

My mind must still be in its diluted state of solitude, perhaps with some remaining blank spots, because I never considered what Jake did next.  The driver sees Jake and says “I have a delivery for your Mom, Buddy.”  Jake says, “I told her you were here but she’s busy pooping,” and points his little index finger into the open bathroom.

My first instinct is to reach out and smack Jake, but something in my reawakening mind stops me and I just try to access Jim’s position.  As I lean off the toilet, I peer out into the foyer and see Jim’s ear to ear grin reflecting in the mirror in the hallway.  Although he was looking right at Jake, it occurs to me that if I can see him, he can possibly see me so I crouch back onto the porcelain seat safely hidden from view.

Just so we’re all following along, here’s the view from the front door. Please note the mirror, and that you can see into the bathroom:

I then begin to wonder if death by embarrassment is a real thing, and if so who would find me dead on the toilet a-la-Elvis.  Jake begins telling me to unlock the screen door so he can get the box. I simply remain seated, silent and completely motionless, with my head down in utter defeat.

I can tell by the tone and volume of  Jim’s voice that what he said next was not intended for Jake. “Well, I’m just going to leave this box here and your Mommy can come get it when she’s finished doing whatever she’s doing. You tell her to have a nice weekend.”  I distinctly hear Jim chuckling as he walks back to his truck.

Part of me wanted to cry out, “I was only peeing!” but at this point I continue to remain silent.  I was going to be humiliated regardless of whether or not Jim thought I was shitting.  Once I hear Jim’s truck pulling away I get up, slam the door and contemplate moving to a new town for the third time in 8 days.

At least it was Friday. Although my week started with getting humped by a sex-crazed canine and ended with Jake telling the delivery man I was pooping with my bathroom door opened, 2 feet from where he was standing, it was still Friday. Thank God.

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Monday? Are you sure? Feels like Hump Day…

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 11:29 am  Uncategorized
Sep 142010
 

After last week’s cricket incident at my local grocery store (read here if you missed it), I’ve been apprehensive about leaving the house.  In fact, aside from working in the yard Saturday and cleaning Sunday, I didn’t do anything requiring me to leave the house the entire  weekend.

As we pulled up to Joey’s school yesterday morning, I found myself scanning the faces of the other parents walking their children into the building.  I live in a small town, any of these people could have seen me having a break down in the Acme parking lot. Any of these fathers could be the man who stuck his hand down my shirt.  I put on my big dark “Jackie O” glasses, took Joey’s hand and walked him up the block and into school.

I managed to get in and out of school without seeing anyone from last week’s incident, and I began to relax as I took my first steps back outside and breathed in the crisp, cool morning air.  Just as I started down the sidewalk, enjoying what would be my only peaceful moment of the day, I heard shouting off to my right and saw a flash of brown.

Before I knew what hit me, I flopped right out of one shoe and hopped out of control backwards into the grass. The morning dew was cold and unwelcome on my one barefoot, and as I struggled to regain balance I grabbed a hold of the brown mass that knocked me out of my momentary zen and back to reality.

My eyes must have shut instinctively, and it was actually the smell of wet dog that told my brain what must have thrust me from my intended path.  As I began to push the brown mongrel off me, it became immediately clear that this (apparent) horse/dog hybrid was not actually jumping on me, but he had secured his front paws around my upper right thigh and was furiously humping my leg.  The dog continued to go to town as I hobbled in the grass and the woman who evidently owns the beast reached us.

She pulled on his collar, commanding the beast to sit, however, “Captain” as she called him, was firm in his intent to make sweet love to my Old Navy Flirt jeans.  Finally, she hooked his leash into his collar, and with one mighty pull she broke his hold on my leg.

As I awkwardly searched for my missing shoe, the woman, in her early twenties began to profusely apologize.  She explained it was her brother’s dog who she was watching while he was out of town. She further explained that the dog, seeing something walk past the front door, actually ripped through her screen and her chase ensued.

I told her it was okay, as the memories of the last large loose dog incident washed over me, and I told “Captain” next time he should at least buy me dinner first.  The dog, now sitting calmly, just looked at me with that “dumb-dog-look,” wagged his tail and panted loudly.

On my walk back to the car, I thanked God that Joey makes me stay and wait for him to hang his bag, find his chair, and color his picture before saying our farewell for the day. Otherwise there may have been more than two or three people who witnessed the event.  I pondered whether or not I should get my own dog just to ward off these other unruly animals roaming my town.

My Monday continued to  spiral downhill with a horrific looking bloody lip for Jake, a blood stain from Jake’s bloody lip on my second pair of pants for the day, a poopy diaper blow out for Cecilia resulting in scrubbing shit from her outfit and my carpet, and finally my crappy super heated Dell laptop being pulled from the couch to the floor and cracking the adapter plug (compromised by the extreme heat I imagine) and ultimately shutting down perhaps never to be turned on again (the battery died after 6 months).

As I finally ended my Monday, chewed some tums to settle the indigestion that came with only having had time to eat potato salad for dinner, and I had to laugh that being humped by that horny beast, was actually one of the better parts of my Wednesday Monday.

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Wanted: Professional Help

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 5:08 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 092010
 

I need Professional help. Many of you already know this, but yesterday, in the parking lot of Acme (my local grocery store), it became painfully obvious to me as well.

Yesterday morning started like most others, too early and with a million things to do leaving me little to no time to ready myself for the day.  I managed to wake up early enough to shower though, since I was making an extra effort to appear normal for Jake’s preschool orientation.  I dressed up a bit more than usual too, again as part of the facade of being a functional adult.

Orientation went off without a hitch and Jake cried when it was time to go home (hopefully a good sign).  We got home just before lunch, so our mid-day madness ensued with toys everywhere, jelly smears from the kitchen to the bathroom…and all down my shirt resulting from plucking Jake off the top of the kitchen table.

Having had enough, and not really even half way through my already long day, I cleaned Jake up, fed the baby and put them both down for naps.  After changing my shirt and delivering the baby monitors to my husband’s home office, I was out to the grocery store before having to pick up Joey from Kindergarten.

It was still warm, but breezy yesterday, and after changing I put on a black short sleeved sweater from Ann Taylor.  It was one of my favorite pre-pregnancy shirts that I hadn’t worn in quite some time. As I drove the five miles to the store, I wondered what could be itching against my back knowing it couldn’t be a tag on this previously worn shirt.  Unfortunately, it was in the center of my upper back, and not wanting to crash my car, I decided to wait until I got out of the car to remove the object from my sweater.

Upon arriving at Acme, with the clock in my mind ticking away, I forgot about the itch and ran into the store.  I began my “Super Market Sweep” style shopping, and somewhere around aisle five, the itching resumed.  Not being the only other customer, and not wanting to look like a complete lunatic,  I was unable to really determine the cause or resolve the itching.  I adjusted my sweater and tried to ignore the persistent itch which now felt like a quarter sized lump of prickles. WTF was in my shirt?

I used the self checkout in hopes that it would be faster, but the constant movement from the cart to the scanning mechanism to the bag and back to cart was almost more than I could bear. My cell phone rang and I could barely walk and talk as I made my way to the car.  I hung up the phone, loaded three bags in the Suburban, and no longer cared how ridiculous I looked, I needed to get what I now imagined was a tumble weed out of my sweater.

Looking similar, I imagine, to a dog chasing its own tail, I reached as far around my back as I could, grabbed the hard and crunchy object that was entangled in fabric of my sweater and pulled. I felt the object break and a portion came loose in my hand while the rest flung back with the clothing to further irritated my skin.

“What the AHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed.  Did I say screamed? I meant I cried out loudly in sheer terror at the half crunched object in my hand. There, in the palm of my hand, was the upper torso, head, and one giant antenna of the most gargantuan and disgusting (dead) cricket I had ever laid eyes on. “It’s in my shirt!” I continued to yell and frantically reach at the remaining carcass. “Oh, God! I can’t get it! I can’t get it!” I continued to cry out in the parking lot of Acme.

A man, probably in his mid thirties, came running after hearing my pleas. He set his bags down and shook the back of my shirt. “It’s still in there! It’s touching me!” I wailed.

“What is it? A bee? Is something stinging you?” he asked.  Before I could answer, and seeing the fear painted on my face, he reached his hand down the back of my shirt, felt around, and after what felt like a lifetime but must have only been a few seconds in reality, he pulled out the bottom half of the Jurassic sized cricket. The bottom half, which was perhaps the worst of the two halves, with it’s giant musical legs, was now in his hands and he began to closely inspected it.  “Uh, I think it’s just a cricket, Miss…” he said now looking slightly embarrassed.

Sensing the strangers awkwardness at the realization that the creature in question was just a cricket, I immediately came up with a lie. “Oh, thank God!  All I saw was brown legs and I thought it was a wasp. I’m extremely allergic to bees. Oh, thank you! Thank you so much.”

The man, now obviously feeling slightly heroic again and not so much like a public groper,  said it was no problem and he was happy to help. I didn’t know what to do at this point either, so I went to  hug the stranger, but stopped half way.  I then attempted to shake his hand but it was more like a high five. Super awkward.

A small crowd (yes, crowd-kill me now) of about six people had gathered a couple parking spaces down, and the hero relayed to them that I was allergic to bees and had an insect in my shirt. They all nodded and one man shook his hand as he walked past.

At this point I wanted to abandon the rest of the bags and just drive home never to return to my local Acme again.  Instead, I moved with incredible speed and loaded the bags as fast as I could. I nearly cried as I drove home wondering how far I should move to never possibly see any of these people ever again.

After unpacking the bags and hurrying over to Joey’s school to get a parking space, I had a few minutes upon arrival to really let this all sink in. I pondered, and not for long, how the cricket got into the sweater in the first place.  My laundry room is in the basement, and this time of year (which is probably when I wore the sweater last), is infested with giant disgusting crickets. The basement is 85% finished, sealed, dry walled, etc. so my guess is these incredibly foul insects are getting in through the sump pump.  There’s never any food down there, and I always see them in my laundry baskets, washer, dryer vent, etc. so my assumption is that they eat laundry as a primary food source.

So get the phone book, call the exterminator, I need professional help.

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Don’t make me regret this…

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 3:52 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 062010
 

My kids hit big milestones and cash in on my bribes rewards for good behavior at the most inopportune times.  For example, when Joey finally started pooping on the potty (which came a whole year after peeing on the potty), I was 7 months pregnant with Cecilia and had 22 month old Jake in diapers too.  Joey was nearly four, I was trying to come up with ways to pay for three kids in diapers, and then it happened. It clicked, but not before I made him one last promise. As I sat with Joey, waiting it out, vowing not to let him leave the bathroom until he pooped, and then I came out with, “If you poop right now, I’ll take you to the zoo.” And so he did. A miracle of sorts. So there I was, 943lbs of hot pregnant mess, driving 40 miles to the zoo in 90 degree weather, just to push the kids (who were too hot to walk) around for an hour in a double stroller.

So yesterday, it was Jake’s turn. Months ahead of his brother, he began going on the potty and decided to cash in on a bribe from last week.  Knowing preschool would be starting this week, I was desperate. Please poop, Jake. You have to start pooping on the potty, Jake. You can’t do that in your pants at preschool, Jake. I’ll take you to the toy store, Jake; please just poop on the potty!

So yesterday, after I started feeling my first back-to-school cold settling in, Jake pooped on the potty. “Mom! Please can I go get my new toy? I really pooped on the potty!” he begged.  So although I had a low grade fever and my throat felt like I swallowed a sea urchin, I packed up the boys (there was no going with just Jake), and we headed to Toys R Us.

Once in the store neither of the boys cared much for their spending limit, and as I tried to suggest toys, they began their melt downs.  There was a lot of talking back, fighting between the two of them, and I just wandered aimlessly around the store occasionally telling them to stop it or we’d just leave.  After both boys finally picked out toys (an Animal Planet remote controlled spider for Joey and a construction set with 2 billion pieces for Jake), we made our way to the front.

As I fought through the fog settling in my head, Jake suddenly stopped in his tracks. “I want this one, Mom” Jake said seeing the new Imaginext Toy Story 3 play set.  “No way, Jake. That toy costs three times as much as the one you have. That might be a good gift to ask Santa to bring you this year” I reasoned.

Upon hearing my explanation, Jake decided to throw his box on the floor and start crying.  I slowly bent down, grabbed his arm, and told him through my teeth, “Don’t make me regret this, Jacob. I will leave here right now with no toys. I’d pick up that box if I were you and keep walking.”

Jake, not willing to call my bluff, grabbed the box and with his head down, walked to the front of the store.  After ringing us up, the chipper young lady told the boys she thought they must be really good to be able to come and get new toys.  She then asked if it was their birthdays or some other special day. Jake looked at the girl, looked at me, and replied, “Nope. I already had my birffday. I got a new toy cause I shit on the potty.”

The girl, not knowing whether to laugh or not, just stared at me until I said, “it’s a big win for us.”

As I strapped Jake in his seat, now fully feverish and totally exhausted, he looked at me smugly, then smiled and said, “I said ‘shit’ to that girl, Mom.”

“Yes, Jake, I know” I sighed. I don’t even think I corrected him. Actually, I know I didn’t; I was too sick to correct him.

So today, as Jake continues to shit poop on the potty, I’m ultimately thankful.  However, I am reminding myself to not resort to these bribes rewards if I don’t think I’ll be ready to cash in on them at the drop of a hat.  I also don’t want them holding out to do something that they should be doing for a toy or trip to the zoo either.

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Saved by the bell…well, almost.

 Posted by Domestic Diva at 2:47 pm  Uncategorized
Sep 032010
 

The alarm sounded and the butterflies in my stomach took flight.  Upon standing I felt them fluttering around and I took a deep breath and reminded myself I needed to stay calm.  I quickly dressed in the outfit I had laid out the night before and got to work taming my hair and applying enough make up to make me look human.

Just as I was putting the finishing touches on my hair, the early morning sun illuminated three or four hairs standing strong above my upper lip that I must have missed when waxing the day before.  Upon further inspection they were on the lighter side, yet rather long (for those who don’t wax, you sometimes need to grow out the hair to effectively remove it).  Plucking these Tom Selleck remnants would surely leave red spots that would not fade before I had to leave the house. The flurry of butterflies in my stomach reminded me I had to make haste.

Eureka!  I found a tiny pair of nail scissors that would have to do the trick.  Just as I placed my tongue under my lip to push out the hairy patch and leaned towards the mirror, scissors extended, Joey burst into the bathroom. “Mom! I need breakfast before Kindergarten! I can’t starve! Hey! Are those my new scissors?!”

“Holy shit, Joey!” I cried out, nearly stabbing myself in the face. “Of course these are not your new scissors!  All of your supplies are in your book bag…can I even trim my mustache in peace?!”I cried out.

Before I could get a reply Joey was already out of my room and half way down the stairs to verify for himself that his new scissors were in fact in his book bag.  This gave me a moment to snip my unwanted facial fuzz and finish readying myself for my oldest child’s first day of full day Kindergarten.

As we drove the 3/4 mile to Joey’s school a million thoughts raced threw my mind, and those butterflies felt like buzzards tearing apart the inside of my stomach.  We arrived five minutes before the kids were allowed to go to their classrooms, so we found a place to stand in the hallway with the other walkers and car riders.

Looking around there were some children, and parents, who looked just as nervous as I was; Joey on the other hand, was bouncing up and down with excitement.  There were a few tear stained faces and some other kids still whimpering quietly as we all waited for the bell to sound.  One of the teacher’s assigned to corral the children until 8:20am, asked Joey if he was going to Kindergarten.  He replied that he was, gave his name and his teachers name, and he got the attention of the crowd quietly waiting for the first day of school to begin.

Knowing Joey had an audience only heightened my anxiety, and that familiar sense of foreshadowing fell over me.  It was then that the teacher, no doubt thrilled to see such a happy face on the first day of school, asked Joey if he remembered his lunch and school supplies.  “Yes! I have a new lunch bag and I have two snacks! I have all my supplies in my bag…and I don’t need to worry, Mommy didn’t take my scissors.” he replied.  I swallowed hard, smiled, and prayed that the bell would ring. Please dear God let the bell ring.

“Oh, well now that you’re in Kindergarten, you’re a big boy so you’ll get to use scissors and glue, and wait until you see the things you’ll do in art class!” she exclaimed.  Joey, still fidgeting with excitement loudly burst out with, “Okay! See, Mom!  I need my scissors! I need them for art projects; you can’t use them to cut your beard!”

“BRRRRRRRIIIIIIINNNNNNNGGGGGGG” the bell sounded, and my face reddened.

I would have thought that no one heard, except that he speaks 10 decibels above normal and there was quite a bit of parental giggling down the hall, sympathetic looks, and the teacher apologetically smiling in my direction.

Joey got settled in with no other issues, and as I said my goodbye and walked to the car, I knew I’d be the parent who had no secrets.  I cried the whole near mile home in part because my “baby” is going into Kindergarten and I think it was just a release of anxiety and emotion building up the last week or so…and maybe a little cause I’m already the “mustache Mama” at a new school…on the very first day. Eff.

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