Summer Santa Sighting

I am on my fourth "smart-phone." Ironically named since mine are not smart enough to turn on, charge, or save any contacts.

I dragged Baby Boy to Verizon yet again yesterday to trouble shoot my latest issues. I think customer service newbie Sami was really just killing time by reading all my texts since she would burst into sporadic laughter from behind the desk as she fiddled with my phone.

After 45-minutes, BB started to get antsy. Then Santa walked in.

He was minus the suit, certainly it was too hot, but other than that he was a spitting image.

Perfect.

"See, Santa is watching you, so you better be reallllllly good," I whispered as BB pulled off all the purple phone covers from the rack.

"I need these," he yelled.

"Go tell Santa," I said as Sami approached with a this-isn't-going-to-be-good-news expression.

After a few minutes I realized my son had indeed approached Santa and was chatting away.

"Well, what do you think your mom would like for Christmas?" Santa asked as I ran sprinted across the store.

"Um, I think she would like to pee standing up."

O.M.G.

"You must get this all the time," I said mortified.

"Not quite like that," Santa screamed with laughter.

I hope he forgets by the time the elves get back to work.

You Bug Me

I am running out of summery things to do with Baby Boy. So today I brought him back to the Audabon, the scene of The Great Donut Debacle, for an hour long nature camp. I pulled his hat over his eyes so no one would recognize him from the '"Do Not Admit" posters the animals had hung around the property.

I thought I would drop him with the group then enjoy some reading time in the sun.

No such luck.

"Come ALONG all you MOMS and...(a quick scan proved all the men had escaped), well, KIDS! Let's go find some BUGS!" The uber chipper volunteer lady handed out nets and magnifying glasses to the kids with a list of 19 bugs they had to find.

I imagined this would somehow involve me doing the bug-finding dirty work but the car was in the other direction.

I stood deep in the woods trying to help pointing to various shadows calling "Perhaps that is a grub?" But as I stood there slapping whatever landed on my bare arms (I definitely killed number 8 and 12 on the list), it was quite clear I was not in my element.

America Runs on Donates

Baby Boy keeps asking for a Mater truck from the Cars 2 movie. We counted up his change (minus all the quarters I borrow for parking meters) and cashed it in for a crisp $20 bill, which he immediately shoved in his tiny shorts pocket.

Today was the big day to go buy Mater. But first, we made a stop at the Audabon for a nature walk. (Need to balance out the impending fluorescent hell of Walmart with some trees and gophers.) In the lobby, there was a giant cube with some loose change at the bottom.

"What's this do, mama?" BB asked as he smeared his mouth all over the outside of it.

"That is where people donate, sweetie," I said rather distracted by the gift shop. "They donate money to help the animals."

When I turned around, his $20 bill was deep in the cube atop the pennies and he was loudly asking the desk volunteer, who was obviously illiterate in 3-year old, where the donuts were.

It only took a second for me to A) see where the miscommunication took place ("That is where people DONUTS, honey...") and B) to realize a huge tantrum was about to occur.

I dragged him out as he was screaming for donuts and/or his money back. The surrounding animals we had spent the morning cooing at decided to take an early hibernation.

A Crime of Fashion

The 13-year old gal down the road watched Baby Boy while I went grocery shopping.

When I got back she informed me that UPS and FEX-EX had both come by.

My heart swelled. My eyes filled with tears of joy. All of my end-of-summer sale stuff had arrived!

"Good thing Darling Husband is coming home late tonight, so I will have time to hide the evidence," I said to Young Babysitter manically.

"Hide the evi...oh, is it his birthday?" her innocent eyes blinked at me.

Hadn't occurred to me she has yet to experience the fiasco of shared credit cards.

His birthday was in April, but she wasn't ready to hear how things are when you are married to someone who tells you to everyday to STOP BUYING CLOTHES. (EVEN when they are like 70% off...you think he would be happy I am saving him so much money.)

"Yes." I overpaid her and scooted her out so I could try on my goods.

The phone just rang. It was Young Babysitter's Dad asking DH if he had time for a birthday beer this weekend.

Ah, the tangled--yet fashionable--webs we weave.

The Dog Days of Summer

Baby Boy has discovered the hose. Sadly, our hose doesn't spew forth cool champagne, rubies or anything you would want shot at full blast in your general range--just the garden variety freezing, stinging, smelling slightly of burnt rubber water.

I was enjoying a few moments laying in the driveway under the sun when the prickles of cold spray jammed up my nose.

Stunned and blind, I heard Darling Husband yell, "Hey! That's not nice, buddy. Grab that towel and help me dry him off."

Oh, my hero! What a good hus....wait. Dry HIM off?

I sat up to see them tenderly drying the DOG as mascara and sunscreen dripped into my mouth.

Reality Moment #47. You know it's time to chop down the Family Totem Pole when the dog takes top billing in a water war.

(I bet no one chose drying the dog over the bikini gal in the banner pic. I hope they sprayed off her fake tan. Humph.)

The Secret to a Happy Marriage

Last night at dinner, a couple stopped by our table to comment on how "lovely the young people are these days."

(Darling Husband is 48 so that gives you an idea of their age.)

Norton and Lola had been married for 61 years. They even held hands during our conversation. I like to think it was because they were still so in love, but it may have been to keep each other from falling over.

"So, Norton," I whispered. "Married for 61 years...what's the secret?"

He smiled at me and nodded.

I asked a little louder.

Again, he smiled at me and nodded.

And....the Big Secret for a Happy Marriage?

Drumroll, please!

Deafness.

What Came First, the Chicken or the Cow?

There is a new French bistro in town, which I have been dying to try. It actually opened six months ago, but that is how long it takes to set up a date after you have kids.

I starved myself for a week to fit into a sexy dress, hiked up the twins and dug out the lipstick. I was ready for a D-A-T-E.

Giddy on freedom, I gulped down Champagne Cocktails as we waited for our table. After a few I really had to pee and wobbled (out of practice) on my stilettos (over a heating grate!) over to the bathrooms.

On one door was a sketch of "une Vache." Upon the other was "un Poulet."

The champagne, on my week-without-food stomach, was spinning around my head leaving little power left to figure out wether I was a COW or a CHICKEN.

The cow had a full udder, as did I, so that was appropriate. But the chicken was not a rooster, hence a baby bearing creature...my weak bladder from having a baby was proof that Door Number 2 could also work.

I could feel the eyes of the kitchen staff on me.

It finally came down to this: if someone were to see me trying on bathing suits at Target, would I be more offended if they called me a "cow" or a "chicken."

Je suis un poulet et l'aimant.