Trade Her for Trader Joe?

For those of you not familiar with Trader Joe's, it's a quaint little grocery store with organic (over-packaged) produce, wood floors, delicious samples, and tiny shopping carts that roll better side-ways than forward.  The aisles are tight, but the food selection makes me feel like I'm a better chef than I am.  So Trader Joe's is a favorite for grocery shopping.

With tight aisles and two 3-year-olds, the kids go in the cart only occasionally squishing the tomatoes and Milton's bread.  Trader Joe, that's him over there I think,

has this clever idea to keep kids busy searching for Ringo the ring-tailed lemur whilst Mom is trying to make her cart steer forward blissfully shopping.

"Is that it?" pointing to a paper tree?

"Mom, is that it?" pointing to a box of cookies.

"Is that the monkey?" pointing to, well, a monkey, but not a lemur.  Sheez.  

This game is supposed to help me focus my efforts on my shopping list?  

So when the game is over (we never did find that damn lemur) the kids are awarded a treat at the check-out lane.  The treat:  peanut butter filled pretzels.  Dude, Trader Joe, ever heard of this little thing going around with kids called a peanut allergy?  We pass on the anaphlactic pretzels and opt for a balloon instead.  Does every outing have to end up like Disneyland for kids these days?  Answer.  Yes.  

So the cart is now too full for bagged groceries (yes, we bring our own bags) and two kids, so the kids, holding balloons, walk outside where we are barraged with Save California's Environment or You're Going To Hell friendly requests to sign petitions.  I'm getting annoyed at Save California Girl.  The cart is rolling (side-ways) down the wheelchair ramp, the kids balloons are precariously blowing around, and other (side-ways) rolling carts are threatening to knock my kids into the parking lot.  After managing to shit on the planet and presumably go to Hell, I try to navigate two kids, two balloons, and a effed up shopping cart through lunch-time traffic in an overstuffed parking lot.  

It looks something like this:

Me (holding the cart with one hand, holding Tatum's ballooned hand):  "Tatum and Chase, hold hands."  (A common request that we've practiced in parking lots many times).

(Car waiting ... inching ... waiting ... inching ...)

Tatum makes a fist with her free hand.

Me:  "Tatum, hold Chase's hand NOW."

Chase trying to hold his sister's hand and a balloon.  

(Car inching .... still waiting for us to cross ... cart rolling sideways ...)

Tatum:  (smirking)  "No."

Chase:  "Tatum, hold my hand."  

Me:  (Yanking Tatum's hand and placing it on the cart, I reach for Chase's hand as we proceed to the car.)

As I'm angrily buckling Tatum into the car seat, and holding her balloon string with my teeth  I ask, "WHY were you not holding his hand?"

No answer.  

"Tatum, how would you feel if Chase got hit by a car because YOU wouldn't hold his hand?"  

Tatum:  "Happy."

Me:  "HAPPY?  You would feel HAPPY if your brother got hit by a car?"

Tatum:  (Smirking)

I change gears.  Maybe she doesn't realize that getting hit by a car is a bad thing (I haven't used that term so freely before), but I'm furious now.  

Me:  "You would feel HAPPY if your brother got squished by a car?"  (I don't know where I'm going with this, but I can't believe what I'm hearing.

Tatum:  "Yes.  I would be happy."

I'm boiling.  I know I shouldn't play the game but I'm just too pissed to stop.  I take her balloon, wave it in her face, and release it to Trader Heaven.  

She loses it.  Tears.  Screaming from buckled position.

I feel victory ... for about a half a second.  Then I feel like an ass.  Cruel.  Defeated by a 3 year old.

As we drive away, through Tatum's sobs, Chase says, "It's okay Tatum.  We can share my balloon."  (The empathy I was looking for in the parking lot from the other kid...)

Driving home in silence I can't help but wonder what I'm doing wrong.  Why did I let my tiny daughter get the best of me?  She fell asleep on the drive.  I wanted to be there the minute she woke up to talk it over.  She apologized.  I apologized.  

But how does this game go when she's fourteen?  

Wordless Wednesday

(Photos compliments of my Mom, Trish.  The next day her camera got destroyed in the "trunk" of her hard-top convertible.  R.I.P. Mr. Nikon.  Your memory (card that is) lives on.)

Did This Work?

Sign by Danasoft - For Backgrounds and Layouts

and this too ...

Sign by Danasoft - Myspace Layouts and Signs

If this worked, and freaked you out too, thank SmoochieFrog. I stole it from her site.

Do You Think It Was the Vagisil That Sealed the Deal?

Here's a recap of moving this year:

*  Lived in long-time home, outgrew it.  Sold house.

*  August 2007.  Moved into new house.  

*  February 2008.  Sold new house to move to Colorado.

*  Changed my mind on moving to Colorado.

*  Really pissed off husband.

*  March 2008.  Found 6 month rental in San Diego until we figured things out.  Moved.

*  May 2008.  Found new house and are in 30 day escrow.  

*  Husband extremely happy with staying in San Diego.  

*  Finding rental home replacements for final 2 months of lease.

*  June 2008.  We'll move again.

So that we don't end up with our new mortgage and an obscene rent payment for two months, we've begun showing the rental so that the owner can rent it to someone more stable appropriate for the long term.

Shortly after a trip to the grocery store, a couple came to see the house.  I was just finishing putting the groceries/toiletries away when they arrived.  They politely looked around.  They politely left.  They politely sent an email saying that they would like to begin a lease in our home. 

To my horror, I realized that not all of the groceries had been put away before their arrival.  The one meant to be put in a medicine cabinet and far out of sight was smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table.

So, do you think it was the Vagisil that sealed the deal?  They say to make your home smell like fresh-baked cookies, to play classical music, and to turn on all of the lights.  I say, leave out some Vagisil.  Worked for me.  

(P.S.  Antibiotics from lip episode didn't agree with my body, hence the photo above.)  

Sleep. Who Needs It? Um, I Do.

Dear Three and a Half Year Old Boy,

You know that thing in your room, the comfy thing with the mattress, the flannel doggie sheets, the quilt, and all your special animals and blankies?  The thing that's blue because it's your favorite color?  The thing that has a trundle below for sleepovers?  It's called a bed.  YOUR BED.  

And you know that big thing in Mommy and Daddy's room that doesn't have stuffed animals or baby blankies and it's kind of hard to crawl up on, yeah that's OUR BED.  

Your bed, blue.

Our bed, well, ours.

And you know how you get all cranky in the afternoon because even though you went into your room for nap-time you didn't sleep?  There's a reason for nap-time.  It's to nap.  And then, when we want to go somewhere in the evening you do this funny thing called falling asleep wherever the heck we go.  Yeah, well, that probably wouldn't happen if you napped.

And maybe you wouldn't be so cranky if you actually stayed in your own room at night in that bed thing, your bed.  Kicking the crap out of Mommy and Daddy at night might be fun for you, but when Mommy wakes up with a bloody lip at 3 am (bad week for lips) from getting sucker-kicked by jammy feet, it's not very funny.  

Let's review buddy because maybe these are some big words for you:

BED (like yours) and NAP (like at nap-time)

(Your) BED at night + NAPping during the afternoon = Many Glorious Days in Heaven (for me, of course).

Okay, ready for the test?  Yes or no?  The following places are where you should sleep:

The Couch?

Mommy & Daddy's Bed

The Beach?

The Baby Bassinette Holding Your Stuffed Animals?

YOUR Bed?

Saturday Morning Ubiquity

Remember Saturday morning cartoons?  Remember waiting all week for your favorite show to finally arrive, hoping for a new episode of The Smurfs, or The Jetsons?  Saturdays meant waking up early (on purpose), not waking your parents, creeping to the TV, turning on the one or two channels that had cartoons, grabbing a bowl of dry cereal, letting your parents sleep in (did I already mention that?), and plugging in to a few glorious hours of animation?

  

Now we have The Disney Channel, Cartoon Network, Nickelodeon, KPBS, and DVR.  In other words All Cartoons All the Time.  

Surely it's up to me to monitor the TV intake, which I do.  But having a couple of shows on every morning while I get ready/make breakfast/make lunches/do shots etc. is all too easy.   But many days when I need that time to blog time to vacuum and prepare an exquisite meal, and I throw a show on, cartoons in all their ubiquitous glory have lost their appeal.  

I know, back in the olden days there was no TV, or it was black and white, or it only had 3 channels.  And kids played and used their imaginations.  I'm all for that.  I'm just sayin' -- remember when you looked forward to the hunky Handy Smurf?  If you checked out my list of DVR'ed episodes you may see a handful of Oprah's and Extreme Makeover Home Editions, but the other 10,438 shows are kids shows which they can now watch ON DEMAND.  Sheez.  

Even Dora is losing her appeal in my house (which ain't a bad thang.)  I guess I'm going to have to get all original now and actually build Barbie houses out of Lincoln Logs, 'cause cartoons just don't cut it around here.

Bragging Brings Bad Karma

Lesson learned.  Well, this time at least.  I got all braggy about going on a trip sans kids.  And I got all braggy about floating in a lazy river with drinks in hand.  And I got all braggy about getting the house we wanted.  

Well thanks a lot MISTER Karma, because now I can't brag anymore, at least not verbally.  'Cause I seem to have a bad case of effing fever blisters on my effing bottom lip that make it effing miserable to eat, nag, brag, talk, or sip a salted margarita glass.  It looks a little something like this, but not on my tush.  It looks like lip-injection gone bad.  

Fuckity fuck it hurts.  So, no vacation pictures.  Just me all complaining today.  With lots of meds.  And a little sympathy.  A little.    

So, it turns out you're not supposed to be in the sun when shit like this gets on your lip.  Thanks Arizona sunshine.  My tan lines are digging you, my lip, notsomuch.