Dr. Gelato

The other day I got a phone call from Husband in the middle of the afternoon.  He rarely calls during work hours (can you blame him?) so I answered.  Good news did not await me.

I hurt my knee, He said.  My good one.  (No, he’s not 78.)  Ohhh...I said.  Are you...okay?  I don’t know, He said.  It hurts pretty bad.  I said, I’m so sorry. Hopefully it’s just a little twist or something and will feel better in a few hours?  He said, I hope so.  I really hope I don’t have to have knee surgery.  I said, why do you jump to knee surgery?  Can we start with a sprain?  He said, you know I have fucked up knees.  (He curses, too.  I’m not the only dirty mouth in the house.)  I said, I know.  I’m sorry.  Your knee can get fucked up when you fall off a wall drunk in college.  He said, it was a baseball injury when I was 12!  I said, yeah, the first time.  So...what time do you think you’ll be home?

I have to say...I think I handled that conversation pretty well.  Yeah, I kind of sound like an asshole...but, if you could hear my internal dialogue, you would understand how kind and patient I was being.  Let’s be truthful here, ladies; having a sick husband is no picnic.  I mean, what’s worse? Sick kids or sick Husband?  I know exactly what you are thinking when your Husband may come home with a “cough” or a “fever” or an “upset stomach.”  It goes something like this:

WOMAN’S INTERNAL DIALOGUE WHEN HUSBAND IS SICK OR HURT:

Oh, you don’t feel good?  Great.  Fucking super. That’s too bad.  That’s really too bad.  For me.  Can’t wait for you to lie around on the sofa asking me for shit.  Like I need another kid to take care of right now.  You haven’t even thrown up.  You don’t really get to be sick unless you’re barfing.  Last time I got sick, I did barf.  A lot.  Was anyone home to help me?  No.  Did I get to take a nap?  No.  Oh, you did get home early...that’s right.  So at 5 p.m. I finally got to lay the fuck down and barf in peace.  Nobody watches you when you barf.  Two Short People don’t stand over you and laugh because Mommy’s making funny sounds.  Nope.  You come home and close the bedroom door and nobody even bothers you.  Must.Be.Nice.  

Now, because I love Husband and want Him to buy me drinks tonight, I have to say...I do feel His concern when I am sick.  He does try to be flexible and make it home early to help me with the kids.  But I have a dream.  I have a dream one day that if I am sick, I will get to stay in bed all day and watch episode after episode of the Real Housewives.  Now, I’m not asking to be sick...I’m just saying...if I do get sick...I want to lay in my bed.  By myself.  Luckily for Husband, I have superior genes and do not get sick often.  And if I am sick, I will probably deny it because everyone knows if you ignore it, it will just go away.  

Which brings me to my medical advice for Husband: Honey, I’m sorry you hurt your knee again.  It does look uncomfortable to not be able to bend it.  I’m pretty sure if you stop looking and touching your knee, it will magically heal itself.  But if you do need knee surgery, I will nurse you back to health, just like a Good Wife.  It won’t be fun; it won’t be pretty...but then again...neither are your fucked up knees.  

Cocktail, anyone?

There can be several points throughout the day of taking care of Small Children that I think I might lose it.  It can be a small moment where a deep breath does the trick; it can be a large moment where hiding in the closet works better, but we all have days when there is a Moment that you wistfully remember Those Days when, you know, you just like went to the movies and stuff and didn’t say words like Pick Up and Play-Date and a short person wasn’t losing their shit over an absurdly tiny piece of insignificant crap and the thought of pulling your hair out didn’t cross your mind 27 times a day.  Most of these special moments for me occur between the hours of 5 and 7 p.m.  The two hours of the day that can feel like 8; the two hours of Let’s Fight About Everything!; the two hours of WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR FATHER?  Some folks refer to this time as the witching hour, but I, being a glass is half full kind of person, refer to it as Cocktail Hour. 

I was in the middle of Cocktail Hour the other night, enjoying the many special benefits that come along with it, when I had a startling revelation: the Don Drapers of the world did not create Cocktail Hour.  No...no they didn’t.  Mothers did.  Years ago, when Husbands across this land would come home from a long day of Not Taking Care of Wee Ones, Good Wife was there to greet him with a nice Scotch or Bourbon, but it’s only because her other hand had a firm grip on her own strong beverage and she didn’t want to share.  At the risk of sounding like I may need my own Intervention one day, there really isn’t an evening that passes which does not involve my drinking a glass of wine. Or two.  (Because you know, when you start at 5:30, one glass doesn’t always cut it.)  Does it make me feel better?  Yes.  Is it delicious?  Yes.  Will I pour a glass for Husband when he strolls through the door?  Yes.  Unless I am mad at him for not being home while the World Was Ending and then he can pour his own damn glass.  

You can now go ahead and add Inventing Cocktail Hour to your list of Why Women Are Awesome.  Raise a glass for us...and then pass it over.  (But first, put the kids to bed.  I might do something really awesome then.)

I guess I could just be a prude...but...

God did not bless me with “good metabolism.”  He did not bless me with a “small appetite.”  He gave me a dirty mind and a potty mouth and called it a day.  So, although I am thankful for both of those things, (while my mother shakes her head and wonders where she went wrong) it also means that I have to get my butt to the gym in order to maintain my MILF status.  Now, I don’t mind working out, although I do mind it when someone is on my treadmill and they ARE BARELY MOVING while reading a magazine.   

I digress.  Although my irrational love of a particular treadmill may be a fascinating topic, what I need to address is Locker Room Nudity.  For those of you who are blessed with good metabolism and “never work out” but manage to stay slim and trim, you should know that first-I hate you, and second-there are two very different levels of nudity happening in a locker room: Naked and NEKKID.  It is rather obvious who is playing for which team once inside the locker room, but in case you need some visuals (why not?), I’ve composed a list of observations of both Naked and NEKKID people:

NAKED PEOPLE

-Maintain normal levels of nudity 

-Get dressed in a reasonable amount of time

-Use a towel as God intended; to cover up

-Apply lotion like a normal person

-Shower with the curtain closed

-May feel uncomfortable talking to someone without being at least partially dressed

-Level of nudity that is acceptable to normal naked people while doing makeup and hair:  bra and pants

NEKKID PEOPLE

-Like to think of the locker room as their own personal bedroom (You know they keep the shades up)

-Will partake in conversation with you while being butt ass NEKKID, leaving you confused and worried about where the hell you are supposed to look

-Blow dry their hair wearing only a thong, or maybe nothing at all

-Can seriously put lotion on body parts I didn’t know existed 

-A towel is merely a suggestion; why not air dry?

-Shower curtain-also a suggestion.  Of course we all want to watch you shower.  Why wouldn’t we?

Now, gentlemen, I’m sure you are thinking that NEKKID people sound totally awesome.   But please, let me gift you with another visual: Not all NEKKID people got it going on.  Ohhhh....LORD....no they don’t.  It’s only natural to assume that if someone has the chutzpah to strut completely naked in a room filled with other people for minutes at a time, that someone would be shaking a nice ass.  Sadly, this is not always true.  I do admire the confidence, I really do.  (Although, I admit, it’s nice to see that almost everyone has cellulite.)  And while I celebrate woman of all shapes and size, I don’t need to be so...familiar with your shape and size and all the...parts that come along with it.  I understand we need to get naked in the locker room; I know I’ll flash a boob here and a butt there...but...you know, we don’t need to get excessive.

So, in closing, a simple request from a simple naked person: Bring it down a notch, NEKKID people.  Bring it down.

Just Click It

Sometimes, I curse.  It’s true.  You might have noticed.  And you may not believe this, but I do attempt to not curse in front of my kids and in most cases I succeed, if only by cursing quietly.  But there is one situation, one act of parenthood that I cannot be held responsible for the words that come out of my mouth: the latching of the car seats in the car.   Although it is best to not have small children in the vicinity while I am performing this task, it is not always possible to keep them away because they like to “help” me.  (They are so “helpful.”)  Their young ears will be exposed to both verbal and sign language that is inappropriate and my only defense of this is, hey, at least when start to curse, they’ll do it right.  My recent session of latching car seats in Grandparents car inspired the following:  

CLICK

A play in four acts 

Written by Me, starring Me, and directed by Me.

ACT ONE

Me is inside the backseat of her car, attempting to put in first car seat.  It’s hot; Me is sweating and feeling agitated. Her children play nearby.

Me: Go in. Go in.  It should just latch.  It’s...right....there.   Latch.  Latch.  It’s right THERE.   Why the hell won’t this latch?  I can feel the bar.  It’s THERE.  IT’S RIGHT THERE.  My finger is on the damn bar.  You need to click.  Click, damn it.    Go.  In.  GO IN.  LATCH.  GODDAMNIT.  MOTHERF*#$@ER.  I HATE YOU.  I HATE THIS SEAT.  I HATE YOU SO MUCH.

Me sits back, takes a moment.  She takes a deep breath as her children stare at her and ask her if she needs Daddy.

ME: I’m FINE.  I don’t need Daddy.  Daddy’s not HERE, IS HE?  Me pauses; takes a breath.   Okay...there is the bar.  I feel it.  I see it.  Stop staring at me, stupid bar.  Why won’t it just go in?  It’s RIGHT FREAKING THERE.   WHY IS IT SO DAMN HOT BACK HERE?  Come on.  Please latch.  Pretty please?  Please please please please please.....

CLICK.  Success. Each time Me hears the click, she feels instant relief followed by anger at Click.  Why does Click need to mock her like that?  Like it was so easy to just...click it.  It’s not easy, Click.  IT DOESN’T ALWAYS JUST CLICK IN, CLICK.    I hate you, Click.   

Me sits back, exhausted.  Her kids cheer and shout encouragement.  This makes Me feel bad for being so angry and violent with the car seat and saying m’fer in front of her kids. Me reminds herself silently to stay calm. One click down, three to go.

ACT TWO

See above.  

ACT THREE

Again, see above.

ACT FOUR

Yes.  See above.  

Curtain

If you have any interest in producing this fine piece of work, please contact me directly.

Flying High

This morning, I received a text from Husband letting me know that he was sitting on the plane waiting to take off to join His Family at Grandma’s house.  He then said, Shall I have a bloody?  And I’m all...bloody nose when you get here?  Seriously, you are already sitting by yourself on an airplane, (that alone sounds awesome) most likely catching up on world events so you can sound smarter than me at dinner parties, and now I’m supposed to cheer you on as you order a cocktail?  Maybe just turn your phone off now.

Flying with young children can be...not so great.  I have flown dozens of times alone with my kids and each time I have to take a deep breath, pack enough snacks for China and back, ignore dirty look from flight attendant as I order a cocktail, and keep fingers crossed that everyone’s bodily functions stay in order.  (Because you may not know, many planes do not have a changing table.  This presents a challenging situation for any parent of a child who POOPS.)

Although my kids are usually good flyers, I have definitely been THAT mom with THAT kid on the plane.  My daughter, as an infant, one time screamed, um, the entire flight from Dallas to LAX.  It was fantastic.  I remember the two men sitting behind me kept giving me thumbs up, saying GREAT JOB, MOM!  WE’RE ALMOST THERE!  And although they were being friendly, I just wanted to flip them the bird and lock myself in the bathroom and cry.  My son is king of falling asleep riiiggghhhtttt as we land which makes deplaning exceptionally awesome.  They both often find that the best time for a wrestling match is as we are taxiing for takeoff and I endure more dirty looks from flight attendants as I say with gritted teeth I know they need to buckled up...I’M WORKING ON IT, LADY.  (And you’re grumpy ass isn’t helping matters, by the way.)

I will say that on the very very rare occasion I fly by myself, I am a much more relaxed passenger.  Our flight’s delayed?  No problem.  We’ll be sitting on the runway for 45 (90) minutes?  Okay...that sort of sucks, but oh well.  AT LEAST I AM NOT WITH CHILDREN RIGHT NOW.  I was not always like this.  Ask Husband.  Wait, don’t ask him.  We’d hate for him to have anything remotely negative to say about me because I’m perfect.

My formula for flying with young ones is pack light, (except for snacks) offer plenty of mindless entertainment, (hello ipad, I love you) juice, juice and more juice, and of course, don’t forget to bring that one treat your kids never get to eat except for on the plane.  We go with fruit snacks, otherwise known as AIRPLANE FOOD!   And while there will always be the people who race you to the escalator so they don’t have to wait behind you while you gently encourage your son to STEP ON.  STEP ON IT.  PLEASE.STEP.ON.IT.NOW, there are also the people who offer to carry a bag for you off of the plane.  Do everyone a favor and be THAT person.  And lastly, I appreciate the thumbs up, but I’d much rather have a cocktail, so feel free to buy me one.  

So, darling Husband, I hope you had a nice, relaxing flight because on the way home, Mama is plugging in her iphone and reading four trashy magazines while you fight over which Wild Kratts is on next.  Oh, and, go ahead and order me a bloody.  Thanks.

Chuck E. Jesus

Here in Gelato land, I have to admit that we do not go to church.  We keep meaning to go, but at like 6 p.m. on any given Sunday, we’re all...oh, crap.  We forgot to go to church.  We promise that we will at least TRY to remember to hit up church next week....flash forward to next week....oh crap.  We forgot to go to church. 

I believe in God and I do want my kids to have some sort of understanding that God is WATCHING YOU SO YOU BETTER NOT MESS UP, KID.   Oh wait, that’s Santa.  No, I am a believer in the Don’t Be A Douche God; my God just wants people to chill and be nice and not get so angry while driving vehicles.  But, explaining ‘Douche’ to a 2 and 4 year old is beyond my abilities without using even more inappropriate language, and I’m not sold that it’s mandatory to sit through an hour of mass every Sunday with squirmy toddlers in order to remain in good standing with The Big Guy.

 So, to go or not to go, that is the question.  A list of pros and cons.

A few reasons why it might time to go to church:

One) When my son asked me what that building was, I said, that’s a church.  And he said, what’s a church?

Two) When we pray, my daughter thanks God for Tic Tac’s.

Three) One time, my son asked what a certain word said. It said ‘Jesus.’  He said, “Oh, like Chuck E. Cheeses?  My mom won’t let us go there but I see it on TV.”  

Four) Every night, I say God Bless You to my kids.  The other night my son asks, What’s God?  I told him God lives inside us and all around us and wants us to be good and kind people.  He paused for a moment and then said that God is going to be pretty upset with Richard at his school because he is NOT.NICE.  (Dude, Richard, you’re four.  Don’t be a dick.)

Five) Husband’s mom went to the convent when she was a teenager.  I’m sure we are not making her proud.

Six) Son thinks heaven is where you “drink wine with all of your friends” because that’s what his friend told him.  (This heaven sounds fantastic...I’m going to go with this as well.)

Seven) Possible donut and/or pancake breakfast following mass.

A few reasons to put off church for a couple years:

One) My kids should think I’m God and can and will punish them as I see fit.

Two) Getting everyone dressed and out of the house by 830 on a Sunday morning seems like cruel and unusual punishment.

Three) I think it’s funny that my kid thinks Jesus and Chuck E. Cheeses are the same thing.

Four) It just sounds...annoying to go somewhere for an hour where you have to be quiet with two small children.  I KNOW the Good People in the world do this each week...but...Lord.  I’d just be praying for it be over.  Kind of like airplane rides with children.  I don’t think God wants to be compared to that, do you?

I guess we could find a compromise; we could be those Christmas and Easter Church People for a while...see how that goes.  Of course, we’d have to ignore the dirty looks we would get from the good Weekly Church People because we took their parking spot. I do like to sing Christmas carols, so that’s a bonus.  All good intentions aside, I think I’m probably going to go ahead and just keep trying not to be a douche for a few more years and hope that rubs off on my kids. And then, I promise, we are SO in.  I swear.  Just a couple more years...

Nag THIS

Several days ago as I silently zipped the waffle bag in the freezer after Husband left it gaping open for the 217th time, inviting freezer burn into our children’s wholesome breakfast each morning, I took a big breath, counted to 40 and calmly asked Husband if he wouldn’t mind trying to remember to close the ziploc bag before putting it back in the freezer.  (And, frankly, try to remember to put it back in the freezer.)  I didn’t even MENTION how this was very very very far from the first time he had left it open.  I was proud of myself for being such an adult about it.

The next day, I opened the freezer and the waffle bag was left open.  I zipped it shut.  I very gently asked him again if he wouldn’t mind trying to remember to close the waffle bag.  Again, I acted like a rational person.  He was all, oh yeah, sorry about that.  

A couple days later, there it was, lying open in the freezer, as if saying, Hey-fuck you lady.  I closed it, aggressively, wondering why this task seemed so out of reach for my Husband, who is a grown man.  

The other night we got home from a day trip from San Diego and I opened the freezer for my nightly intake of chocolate chips and there it was.  Open.  Again.  I muttered loudly enough for Husband to hear I was speaking but not necessarily loud enough for him to know what I was saying.  What are you mumbling about, he asked.  I said COULD YOU PLEASE CLOSE THE FREAKING WAFFLE BAG?  WHY IS IT SO DAMN HARD? (It might surprise you, but I actually said “freaking” instead of my favored F word.  It seemed a tad less harsh.)  He was all, what’s the big deal?  Who cares if it’s closed?  

One:CLEARLY I FUCKING CARE BECAUSE I HAVE ASKED YOU 17 TIMES TO CLOSE IT.

Two: Our children care.  They may not express it, but I’m pretty sure they don’t like the taste of freezer burn.  

Three: Why is it hard?  When you open something, doesn’t it come naturally to close it when finished?  Wait...I forget who I’m talking about-Species that Doesn’t Close Things, including cupboards, drawers, doors and zippers.

My point, and I may or may not have one depending on whether or not you have a penis, is that women, wives, moms, girlfriends, those of the female species, do not come by nagging naturally.  We come by it because WE ARE FORCED INTO IT.  

Please.  Please close the waffle bag.  Even if it contains french toast, I will still call it the waffle bag and I will still want you to close it.  Our kids deserve that fresh, homemade, non-freezer burn breakfast each morning.  Or they at least deserve the opportunity to take one bite and declare themselves finished as I mumble something about starving children in Africa.  For the 258th time.