Most pregos crave things like, triple layer chocolate brownie fudge cake. Or Spicy Cheetos. Or Doritos slathered in Cheez Whiz. Or iodized salt, right from the shaker. Not me.
I'm craving beer. And not just any beer will do. I want Blue Moon. It's not fair God dammit.
So I decided to discuss the cruelty of this situation with my Gynecologist. Who, by the way, is the cutest little Indian woman that you will ever meet in your life. She has a receding hairline, and is old enough to be my mom, but speaks to me like an equal. I am sure that she silently prays that one day, I will find a birth control method that actually works.
Me: Soooo, Dr.C, I'm really craving beer right now. I can have one or two, right? (notice how I don't clarify per hour, per day, or per week).
Dr.C: One or two a week is okay. You must be making a man in there.
Confession: I have already had a few beers during the course of this pregnancy. But I wanted Dr.C's blessing. And before you go casting stones, I gave up EVERYthing during my pregnancy with the twins, and THEY are my kids with learning challenges. So I view each pregnancy sort of like a science experiment now.
Me: I'm painting right now. That's okay, right? It's NOT oil based paint.
Dr.C: Yeah, yeah. Just wear a mask if the fumes are bothering you.
See, this is what I LOOOOVE about my doctor. She's just chill. She doesn't freak out that I'm painting or drinking beer. In fact, I bet if I told her I wanted to sky dive tomorrow, she would tandem jump with me, "just in case".
A lot of people dis Kaiser, but the truth of the matter is, finding the right doctor is key. And believe me, they have a list of like 1.000,000 to choose from.
In addition to seeing Dr.C that morning, I had another appointment scheduled as well. With a different doctor. A surgeon. And man, is he easy on the eyes! Let's call him Dr.Hawt. Or Dr.Handsome. Or HOLY SHIT! You're MY doctor?! Hells yes!
You see, each subsequent pregnancy brings a new gift. My first pregnancy left stretch marks that spared not one square inch of skin, leaving me looking like The Rainbow Fish.
The second time around, I developed the "Mask of Pregnancy", which sort of left me looking like I needed to shave a 5 o'clock shadow, even though I am a WOman.
My last pregnancy left me with my uterus being practically catapulted out of my body if I sneezed. God forbid, if while writing a check one day for my groceries at Safeway, I cough. "CLEAN UP AT CHECK STAND 5! We've got a uterus on the floor!" I'm going to market a uterus hammock for women who have had 3 or more kids, I swear.
This time around, I have been the lucky recipient of yet another, pregnancy induced condition: varicose veins the size of a Home Depot garden hose. And Dr.Hottie, who is a vascular surgeon, just happens to be the same man who took my dad's leg off. So he agreed to examine my garden hose.
I will never forget the first time my dad introduced my brothers and I to Dr.Hot Stuff. Up walked this rather tall, confident, but YOUNG man. Like really YOUNG. Like, does this guy even have his Driver's Permit yet? YOUNG.
Really? I thought to myself. You are a surgeon?! Cause you look like maybe you just got off your shift from Orange Julius an hour ago.
Fast forward ten years, and Dr.Anytime is the Right Time, is like extended family now. He and my dad are buds. The Silver Fox and my dad even went to Dr.Hottie's wedding. Dr.Handsome's wife sold my folks house in Campbell. Like I said, we're sort of like family.
But I can't help but think sometimes...if I wasn't married...and he wasn't married...and I wasn't pregnant AGAIN with my husband's child...well, just maybe. Sigh.
After having a rather detailed ultrasound of the garden hose, Dr. "I Think of Hugh Jackman, When I See You", met with me in his office.
Me, in a frantic tone: Everything's alright, RIGHT?
Dr.Hot: Oh yes. This is not a situation like your dad's was at all. Do you mind if I take a look at the area?
Me: Sure. (mind you, "the area" is basically between my legs, located just beneath my uterus hammock. My only thought was, thank God I wore underwear. But he's a doctor, so it was totally fine...still....)
Dr.Hot: After you deliver, if you'd like to, I can remove that vein.
Me: Sounds good. What about these? (I say, referring to a patch of spider veins that have left that bottom part of my calf looking like someone has clubbed me with a bat)
Dr. Hot: Those veins will most likely dissipate after delivery, but probably won't completely go away. That is more of a cosmetic situation.
GOD DAMMIT!!! This was the news I had feared. In my mind, I was thinking, let's bang this all out at once. If you're going to remove the garden hose, can't you just take care of those too? And how about a boob lift and tummy tuck, while we're at it? I'd also like to get my teeth whitened and a spray on tan. COME ON!
My visit with Dr.Lovely ended with a hug, and a promise that I would tell my dad to call him soon.
I'll be honest, five hours spent at Kaiser on a spectacular sunny day is NOT my idea of a great time. But it could of been worse. Dr. C could have told me that beer is completely off limits. And Dr.Hot Stuff could have never been born. I mean, I can't complain.
But when I do go back to have this garden hose removed, you better believe I'll be rocking a cocktail dress.
* No doctors were injured or hurt in any way during the creation of this blog. For those of you who know Dr. Hot by his real name, he has politely asked to remain ANONYMOUS. Hmmm...I wonder why.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
My Dad
A dad can be so many things to a little girl growing up: a fixer of broken things, a soccer coach, a handle bar holding supporter, for your first bike ride, without training wheels. My dad has been all of those things and so much more.
I didn't realize until I became an adult, that not all little girls had a daddy as loving, gentle and supportive as mine. Which makes me appreciate him all the more as I have grown into a woman. As I watch my husband with our own girls, I am reminded daily of just HOW important that person is in our lives. So that we can grow up strong, confident, fierce, and sure of ourselves. Mamas mold their daughters, but daddies do too...in a different way.
Anyone who knows my dad, understands that he is unique. He's LOUD. He loves to laugh. He's bald. And he just happens to have one leg.
I never had to "be" someone other than just who I was during childhood, for my dad. And honestly, growing up being the only girl and baby in the family, SO worked out to my benefit.
One of my most prominent memories is my dad cheering from the sidelines of my soccer, volleyball, and basketball games. He wasn't just yelling for me; he was belting it out for ALL the girls. My dad understood the importance of feeling validated. And even if you totally sucked at something, he would find a way to make you feel good about how you tried your best.
In fact, that is the most important lesson I have learned from my dad: making mistakes is okay; it's how we grow. I mean, how can you possibly go wrong with that advice? I was given permission to screw up to become a better person...cool.
My dad taught me how to ride my first two wheeler: a scarlet, red ride, with a flowered banana seat, called The Prairie Flower. Although my new bike rocked (remember this was the 70's), I was totally intimidated. This was uncharted territory in my 6 years on the planet. My dad, assured me that I would learn how to ride this bike. It was okay if I fell, or felt nervous. I would do it.
See, here's the thing, I wasn't sure I could ride The Prairie Flower, but he WAS. Did I fall? Did I crash into a few parked cars? Did I scrape my knees into bloody open wounds? I'm sure I did. But I don't remember that part of the experience.
Here is what is etched perfectly in my memory: my dad running beside me, and then letting go of my handle bars. I thought, I am riding my bike! No training wheels! I'm flying! Oh shit, how do I stop?
About ten years ago, after a long bout with circulatory issues, my dad had a below the knee amputation. This was not an easy decision. Nor one that was made lightly. But my dad understood one thing: he must go through this, in order to heal, and move on with his life. My husband and I spent some time with him at the hospital the night before the big surgery, and when a nurse walked into the room, I requested a Sharpie marker.
On the bottom of his "good" foot, I wrote, "NO!!! Wrong one silly!" And on the bottom of the foot that was to be removed, I wrote, "Na, na, na, na - Na, na, na, na - Hey, Hey, Hey, Good-bye!" Yes, it was a joke, but I also wanted to ensure the correct leg was removed. My dad was laughing, and game for this joke the whole time. He was dying to know what his doctor's reaction to that was going to be on the operating table.
My dad's attitude during the entirety of this situation taught me who he really is. His faith remained strong, as he not only dealt with the grieving loss of his leg, but the brutal recovery process, as well. After about 6 months had passed, my dad set his sights on one goal: to walk unassisted, with his new prosthesis, before the twins took their first steps. Guess who won?
About 8 years ago, after watching my dad's success on Weight Watchers, I decided to join. I had just given birth to my third daughter, Emma, and had close to 100 pounds to lose. Wednesday was my weigh-in day. And do you know who I called after every single meeting? My dad. "Dad, I lost 1.2 lbs this week. That brings me to 12 pounds." This was great news and all, but I still had a loooong way to go on this journey. His response was always supportive, "You GO babe! You got this!"
When I got to my goal weight, I called him, practically in tears. "Dad, I think I want to work for the company." Dad said, "You should do it babe. You are so motivating. Look at how much weight you've lost! You would be perfect as a leader." Not much had changed. Here was dad encouraging me like he did in my childhood, when in reality, I was a grown woman.
More often than not, I find that I still need that non-judgemental, encouraging type of love, that comes only from a parent's heart.
About 2 years ago, I received a phone call from my mom that was life-changing. Calmly, she explained that my dad had been bleeding internally, and was in emergency surgery at Kaiser. I tailspinned. I lost connection with reality. I cried uncontrollably.
Shortly after reaching the hospital, dad came out of surgery. He asked for me. I went in, solo, shaking. My dad was laying on the bed, under the blanket. My hero, was weak, and dazed. Had he not gotten to the hospital in time, surely the ending would be different. This was just too close to home. I had friends who lost their parents, but I just guess I had the naive notion, that mine were immortal.
Not so. My dad looked up at me. Holding my hand, he told me how much he loved me. Trying not to totally lose it, I squeezed back, assuring him through teary eyes, that yes, I loved him too. More than he could ever imagine.
My dad has since made a full recovery. And we never end a phone call without saying "I love you." Things have changed. Forever. It is understood, without question, that nothing is promised.
Is any one's family perfect? Hardly. But I am so blessed to have mine.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
I didn't realize until I became an adult, that not all little girls had a daddy as loving, gentle and supportive as mine. Which makes me appreciate him all the more as I have grown into a woman. As I watch my husband with our own girls, I am reminded daily of just HOW important that person is in our lives. So that we can grow up strong, confident, fierce, and sure of ourselves. Mamas mold their daughters, but daddies do too...in a different way.
Anyone who knows my dad, understands that he is unique. He's LOUD. He loves to laugh. He's bald. And he just happens to have one leg.
I never had to "be" someone other than just who I was during childhood, for my dad. And honestly, growing up being the only girl and baby in the family, SO worked out to my benefit.
One of my most prominent memories is my dad cheering from the sidelines of my soccer, volleyball, and basketball games. He wasn't just yelling for me; he was belting it out for ALL the girls. My dad understood the importance of feeling validated. And even if you totally sucked at something, he would find a way to make you feel good about how you tried your best.
In fact, that is the most important lesson I have learned from my dad: making mistakes is okay; it's how we grow. I mean, how can you possibly go wrong with that advice? I was given permission to screw up to become a better person...cool.
My dad taught me how to ride my first two wheeler: a scarlet, red ride, with a flowered banana seat, called The Prairie Flower. Although my new bike rocked (remember this was the 70's), I was totally intimidated. This was uncharted territory in my 6 years on the planet. My dad, assured me that I would learn how to ride this bike. It was okay if I fell, or felt nervous. I would do it.
See, here's the thing, I wasn't sure I could ride The Prairie Flower, but he WAS. Did I fall? Did I crash into a few parked cars? Did I scrape my knees into bloody open wounds? I'm sure I did. But I don't remember that part of the experience.
Here is what is etched perfectly in my memory: my dad running beside me, and then letting go of my handle bars. I thought, I am riding my bike! No training wheels! I'm flying! Oh shit, how do I stop?
About ten years ago, after a long bout with circulatory issues, my dad had a below the knee amputation. This was not an easy decision. Nor one that was made lightly. But my dad understood one thing: he must go through this, in order to heal, and move on with his life. My husband and I spent some time with him at the hospital the night before the big surgery, and when a nurse walked into the room, I requested a Sharpie marker.
On the bottom of his "good" foot, I wrote, "NO!!! Wrong one silly!" And on the bottom of the foot that was to be removed, I wrote, "Na, na, na, na - Na, na, na, na - Hey, Hey, Hey, Good-bye!" Yes, it was a joke, but I also wanted to ensure the correct leg was removed. My dad was laughing, and game for this joke the whole time. He was dying to know what his doctor's reaction to that was going to be on the operating table.
My dad's attitude during the entirety of this situation taught me who he really is. His faith remained strong, as he not only dealt with the grieving loss of his leg, but the brutal recovery process, as well. After about 6 months had passed, my dad set his sights on one goal: to walk unassisted, with his new prosthesis, before the twins took their first steps. Guess who won?
About 8 years ago, after watching my dad's success on Weight Watchers, I decided to join. I had just given birth to my third daughter, Emma, and had close to 100 pounds to lose. Wednesday was my weigh-in day. And do you know who I called after every single meeting? My dad. "Dad, I lost 1.2 lbs this week. That brings me to 12 pounds." This was great news and all, but I still had a loooong way to go on this journey. His response was always supportive, "You GO babe! You got this!"
When I got to my goal weight, I called him, practically in tears. "Dad, I think I want to work for the company." Dad said, "You should do it babe. You are so motivating. Look at how much weight you've lost! You would be perfect as a leader." Not much had changed. Here was dad encouraging me like he did in my childhood, when in reality, I was a grown woman.
More often than not, I find that I still need that non-judgemental, encouraging type of love, that comes only from a parent's heart.
About 2 years ago, I received a phone call from my mom that was life-changing. Calmly, she explained that my dad had been bleeding internally, and was in emergency surgery at Kaiser. I tailspinned. I lost connection with reality. I cried uncontrollably.
Shortly after reaching the hospital, dad came out of surgery. He asked for me. I went in, solo, shaking. My dad was laying on the bed, under the blanket. My hero, was weak, and dazed. Had he not gotten to the hospital in time, surely the ending would be different. This was just too close to home. I had friends who lost their parents, but I just guess I had the naive notion, that mine were immortal.
Not so. My dad looked up at me. Holding my hand, he told me how much he loved me. Trying not to totally lose it, I squeezed back, assuring him through teary eyes, that yes, I loved him too. More than he could ever imagine.
My dad has since made a full recovery. And we never end a phone call without saying "I love you." Things have changed. Forever. It is understood, without question, that nothing is promised.
Is any one's family perfect? Hardly. But I am so blessed to have mine.
Happy Father's Day, Dad.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Poochie Woochie
I will never forgot the first time I met my dog. He wasn't even my dog...yet. Nor was it my intention for him to EVER be my dog.
I was a first year teacher, crying pretty much daily, and wondering why the hell I had decided to help mold the youth of America. This was too hard. Too tough. Too much work. I was crumbling, and it was only October.
The end of the school day had arrived, and I forced myself into the office, to make yet, another set of 33 copies. As soon as I walked in, the Principal, Mariann, turned to face me with the most adorable, fuzzy, cub bear looking dog, you ever did see. Well, the FLEAS leaping off of his belly, were the first thing I noticed, really.
"Michelle, look at this guy," Mariann gently coaxed. She was known for her animal rescuing gifts, having taken home 3 stray dogs already, as well as her kick-ass approach to disciplining kids with raging hormones. "Just look at him...Michelle, he needs a home."
"No Mariann, look at those fleas. Gross." I tried to walk towards the copy machine, dismissing her. But I swear, it was like a cue from a movie. As Mariann gently layed him down on the carpet, he wrapped his little cub bear puppy paws around feet, and looked up at me. I thought to myself, "Oh shit, this dog is so going home with me."
Did I call my husband, and ask his opinion about bringing a stray dog into our home? No. Was I thinking clearly? Absolutely not. I think I must have been transported to another time, place, and planet, as I drove my '68 Mustang home, with this little flea bag asleep at my feet. Little did I know then, how that dog would save me on so many different levels.
Quietly, I snuck into the house, carrying the small, brown bundle under my arm. As I opened the door to my daughter, Katie's room, I said, "Look what I have!!!!!" She was 9, and I was like, 29. But it so didn't matter, because our reactions were exactly the same! "We have a dooooog, we have a dooooog. Who cares what Dad says? We have a dooooog!"
Just then, Tom walked in through the front door. Deciding to put out the fire, before it really got going, I calmly said, "Honey, guess what?" In fact, looking back now, those were the same exact words I used just a few months ago, when I shared the "surprise" news of our unplanned baby.
"Look what I got," I said, kind of squinting, with tense arms outstretched, holding flea bag, unsure of what his reaction would be.
"Oh my stars," Tom replied. Now, anyone who knows my husband, knows these are his true words of affirmation. Of acceptance. Of giddiness. Of pure awe.
We decided that Bear was part Chocolate Lab or Chesapeake Bay Retriever, mixed with some Golden. A perfect mix for a family dog. After losing several shoes, pieces of furniture, and books to Bear's puppy teeth, he was enrolled in Obedience School.
Bear came everywhere with us. The beach. Our annual Houseboat trip. The grocery store. It was official, this dog was part of our family. Often times, when we would arrive at family functions, people didn't care to give US a hug first. They were looking for Bear, who would leap out of the car, and come bounding towards the group.
Bear developed into a very loving, gentle, and mellow soul. Sure, he jumped off the back of the Houseboat a few times, in the middle of Lake Shasta. Let me assure you, hauling 80 pounds of wet dog back into the houseboat, was not a pretty sight. And yeah, he caught a squirrel with his teeth once, and brought it into the house to show me his trophy. There was even one time when the front gate was left open, and Bear saw an opportunity he just could not pass up: attacking the mailman. Poochie then proceeded to get maced by the mailman. Poor poochie woochie. The post office refused to deliver mail until Tom went down to the post office and signed an oath that said something like, "Your savage dog will never attack our negligent postal worker ever again." But with age, he just mellowed.
While in his prime, Bear was a regular fixture on my daily 4 mile walks, as I pushed the triple stroller. And I swear, every time he saw me with an emerging pregnant belly bump, he thought, "Oh man, here we go again. More little people to climb all over me." But he never nipped. He never growled. He always remained calm, cool and collected, which is more than I can say about my parenting skills.
How do you say good bye to a family member? A dog that has been with us for 14 years? A poochie woochie who once jumped on my chest to lick my face, but now, can't even get up?
I layed down next to Bear last night, and whispered to him, "You can go Bear. You don't have to stay here anymore. We'll be okay." I know it may sound crazy, but I wanted to give him permission to die peacefully. Let him know that he doesn't have to suffer for our sake anymore.
He actually raised his head, and looked deep into my soul. He understood exactly what I was saying.
I was a first year teacher, crying pretty much daily, and wondering why the hell I had decided to help mold the youth of America. This was too hard. Too tough. Too much work. I was crumbling, and it was only October.
The end of the school day had arrived, and I forced myself into the office, to make yet, another set of 33 copies. As soon as I walked in, the Principal, Mariann, turned to face me with the most adorable, fuzzy, cub bear looking dog, you ever did see. Well, the FLEAS leaping off of his belly, were the first thing I noticed, really.
"Michelle, look at this guy," Mariann gently coaxed. She was known for her animal rescuing gifts, having taken home 3 stray dogs already, as well as her kick-ass approach to disciplining kids with raging hormones. "Just look at him...Michelle, he needs a home."
"No Mariann, look at those fleas. Gross." I tried to walk towards the copy machine, dismissing her. But I swear, it was like a cue from a movie. As Mariann gently layed him down on the carpet, he wrapped his little cub bear puppy paws around feet, and looked up at me. I thought to myself, "Oh shit, this dog is so going home with me."
Did I call my husband, and ask his opinion about bringing a stray dog into our home? No. Was I thinking clearly? Absolutely not. I think I must have been transported to another time, place, and planet, as I drove my '68 Mustang home, with this little flea bag asleep at my feet. Little did I know then, how that dog would save me on so many different levels.
Quietly, I snuck into the house, carrying the small, brown bundle under my arm. As I opened the door to my daughter, Katie's room, I said, "Look what I have!!!!!" She was 9, and I was like, 29. But it so didn't matter, because our reactions were exactly the same! "We have a dooooog, we have a dooooog. Who cares what Dad says? We have a dooooog!"
Just then, Tom walked in through the front door. Deciding to put out the fire, before it really got going, I calmly said, "Honey, guess what?" In fact, looking back now, those were the same exact words I used just a few months ago, when I shared the "surprise" news of our unplanned baby.
"Look what I got," I said, kind of squinting, with tense arms outstretched, holding flea bag, unsure of what his reaction would be.
"Oh my stars," Tom replied. Now, anyone who knows my husband, knows these are his true words of affirmation. Of acceptance. Of giddiness. Of pure awe.
We decided that Bear was part Chocolate Lab or Chesapeake Bay Retriever, mixed with some Golden. A perfect mix for a family dog. After losing several shoes, pieces of furniture, and books to Bear's puppy teeth, he was enrolled in Obedience School.
Bear came everywhere with us. The beach. Our annual Houseboat trip. The grocery store. It was official, this dog was part of our family. Often times, when we would arrive at family functions, people didn't care to give US a hug first. They were looking for Bear, who would leap out of the car, and come bounding towards the group.
Bear developed into a very loving, gentle, and mellow soul. Sure, he jumped off the back of the Houseboat a few times, in the middle of Lake Shasta. Let me assure you, hauling 80 pounds of wet dog back into the houseboat, was not a pretty sight. And yeah, he caught a squirrel with his teeth once, and brought it into the house to show me his trophy. There was even one time when the front gate was left open, and Bear saw an opportunity he just could not pass up: attacking the mailman. Poochie then proceeded to get maced by the mailman. Poor poochie woochie. The post office refused to deliver mail until Tom went down to the post office and signed an oath that said something like, "Your savage dog will never attack our negligent postal worker ever again." But with age, he just mellowed.
While in his prime, Bear was a regular fixture on my daily 4 mile walks, as I pushed the triple stroller. And I swear, every time he saw me with an emerging pregnant belly bump, he thought, "Oh man, here we go again. More little people to climb all over me." But he never nipped. He never growled. He always remained calm, cool and collected, which is more than I can say about my parenting skills.
How do you say good bye to a family member? A dog that has been with us for 14 years? A poochie woochie who once jumped on my chest to lick my face, but now, can't even get up?
I layed down next to Bear last night, and whispered to him, "You can go Bear. You don't have to stay here anymore. We'll be okay." I know it may sound crazy, but I wanted to give him permission to die peacefully. Let him know that he doesn't have to suffer for our sake anymore.
He actually raised his head, and looked deep into my soul. He understood exactly what I was saying.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Shopping Day
Costco looooves me. Seriously, they adore me. When they see me arrive every Monday like clockwork, the workers yell out to each other, "She's baaaack! The lady who has that damn gaggle to feed, is baaaack! And can you believe she's pregnant AGAIN?! Umhummmmm, she keeps us in business, yes, she do."
You know how there are some people who claim they could never eat that size/portion/amount of food in a week? NOT the Walsh fam. We go through it. Often, when having my receipt checked before I am allowed to go free back into the outside world and beyond, the Costco employee, always wants to make sure s/he has got it right, "TWO breads? THREE apples? TWO bananas? TWO grapes? FOUR kids?"
I mean, where else in the world can you purchase milk, eggs, enough tampons to last a lifetime, car tires, AND a dogbed? Make no mistake about it. Costco is the only way to shop with a brood as big as ours.
My number one rule at Costco is this: stay focused. I hear folks all the time say, "If I even go into that place, I drop 500 bucks." If it ain't on the list, you no buy. I don't care how cute/fuzzy/useful the item may seem at the time. Portable air conditioner...is it on the list? Car mats that come in a variety of colors...are they on the list? A wooden playground the size of a small country...is it on the list? That one rule saves me each week, and ensures that I spend within my budget. Although, sometimes, I will admit, I feel beckoned to the beer/wine/hard alcohol section...just to browse. Really.
I navigate Costco in a very methodical fashion. Before I learned my OCD route, I would get stuck behind the Jewelry Specialty section that was visiting only until Mother's Day. Or a specialty one-size-fits-all Sundress area, where small, medium, large and extra-large women flock, like moths to a flame.
Generally, my shopping experience tends to go smoothly, and the mission is completed within 30-45 minutes.
UNLESS I encounter several assholes in a row who happen to leave their carts in the middle of the fucking aisle. Seriously? RIGHT in the middle? Pick a side...left or right. But no, these shoppers in particular, are clueless, get distracted by the whizzing blender man, and leave their shit right in the middle of the aisle. With no forethought whatsoever, to the GIGANTIC obstacle s/he has created for all of the other Costco members. This selfish act, requires me to leave my 4 year old, unattended, which anyone knows is a dangerous act in and of itself, to move some other member's cart. Next time, I'm stealing a purse. Fuck this, being polite bullshit.
And what's up with thumping the watermelons? At first, I believed it was only specific races who thumped. But I have come to find, that several people believe that thumping will give them the PERFECT melon. You would think people are searching for a million dollars or the cure to cancer. I refuse to thump, just because they DO thump. And you know what? My melons are pretty close to perfection. And my watermelon doesn't taste bad, either.
Although, the handy sample snack people located at the end of each aisle, seem like a good idea. They actually create a bottleneck. You will find new mothers, bolting away from their infant babies, to grab a sample of a fucking begal bite, like it will be the last time they will ever eat. I become especially annoyed by the people who take, like 5 samples at a time. WTF? Leave some for the rest of us. Hold on a minute, aren't you the asshole who left their cart in the middle of the aisle over in the bread section?
When I check out, I feel like I should wear my Weight Watchers badge, so the clerk will stop asking me, "Anything from the food court today?" What I want to say is, "Do you know how many grams of FAT are in your hotdogs? Do I look like I want a piece of pizza the size of my Costco cart? I just spent 200 dollars on FOOD, do I look like I need an ice cream coffee latte that comes in a bucket?"
But after surviving the negligent middle-of-aisle-cart-shoppers, the Jewelry Show, and the Thumpers, I reply, "No thank you." Every. Single. Week. And they nod and smile, knowing that I will be baaaaaack next Monday.
You know how there are some people who claim they could never eat that size/portion/amount of food in a week? NOT the Walsh fam. We go through it. Often, when having my receipt checked before I am allowed to go free back into the outside world and beyond, the Costco employee, always wants to make sure s/he has got it right, "TWO breads? THREE apples? TWO bananas? TWO grapes? FOUR kids?"
I mean, where else in the world can you purchase milk, eggs, enough tampons to last a lifetime, car tires, AND a dogbed? Make no mistake about it. Costco is the only way to shop with a brood as big as ours.
My number one rule at Costco is this: stay focused. I hear folks all the time say, "If I even go into that place, I drop 500 bucks." If it ain't on the list, you no buy. I don't care how cute/fuzzy/useful the item may seem at the time. Portable air conditioner...is it on the list? Car mats that come in a variety of colors...are they on the list? A wooden playground the size of a small country...is it on the list? That one rule saves me each week, and ensures that I spend within my budget. Although, sometimes, I will admit, I feel beckoned to the beer/wine/hard alcohol section...just to browse. Really.
I navigate Costco in a very methodical fashion. Before I learned my OCD route, I would get stuck behind the Jewelry Specialty section that was visiting only until Mother's Day. Or a specialty one-size-fits-all Sundress area, where small, medium, large and extra-large women flock, like moths to a flame.
Generally, my shopping experience tends to go smoothly, and the mission is completed within 30-45 minutes.
UNLESS I encounter several assholes in a row who happen to leave their carts in the middle of the fucking aisle. Seriously? RIGHT in the middle? Pick a side...left or right. But no, these shoppers in particular, are clueless, get distracted by the whizzing blender man, and leave their shit right in the middle of the aisle. With no forethought whatsoever, to the GIGANTIC obstacle s/he has created for all of the other Costco members. This selfish act, requires me to leave my 4 year old, unattended, which anyone knows is a dangerous act in and of itself, to move some other member's cart. Next time, I'm stealing a purse. Fuck this, being polite bullshit.
And what's up with thumping the watermelons? At first, I believed it was only specific races who thumped. But I have come to find, that several people believe that thumping will give them the PERFECT melon. You would think people are searching for a million dollars or the cure to cancer. I refuse to thump, just because they DO thump. And you know what? My melons are pretty close to perfection. And my watermelon doesn't taste bad, either.
Although, the handy sample snack people located at the end of each aisle, seem like a good idea. They actually create a bottleneck. You will find new mothers, bolting away from their infant babies, to grab a sample of a fucking begal bite, like it will be the last time they will ever eat. I become especially annoyed by the people who take, like 5 samples at a time. WTF? Leave some for the rest of us. Hold on a minute, aren't you the asshole who left their cart in the middle of the aisle over in the bread section?
When I check out, I feel like I should wear my Weight Watchers badge, so the clerk will stop asking me, "Anything from the food court today?" What I want to say is, "Do you know how many grams of FAT are in your hotdogs? Do I look like I want a piece of pizza the size of my Costco cart? I just spent 200 dollars on FOOD, do I look like I need an ice cream coffee latte that comes in a bucket?"
But after surviving the negligent middle-of-aisle-cart-shoppers, the Jewelry Show, and the Thumpers, I reply, "No thank you." Every. Single. Week. And they nod and smile, knowing that I will be baaaaaack next Monday.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Kids Keep It Real
You never have to actually ask a kid for the truth: they just tell it like it is, pretty or not.
Case in point, my eldest Abby, the other day, pulls me in close and says to me in a hushed tone, "Mom, you're looking kind of O-L-D," Trying not to laugh, and gearing up to hear the whole truth, and nothen but the truth, I said, "Abby, what part of me exactly looks O-L-D?" "Well Mom, you know how young women's boobs are perky and way up here?" she said, motioning to her collarbone. "Well, your boobs are smooshed and sagging way down here," she finished up her explanation, pointing to her belly button. I couldn't argue with her. I mean, it's TRUE. I just can't WAIT to hear what she will say about my boobs when I'm not pregnant anymore and done nursing....YIKES.
In my mind, I guess I don't equate myself with my age. I mean, who says a 38 year old can't wear glitter and rock a push up bra?! I will fight for my right to sparkle and stay perky, god dammit!
In fact, just the other day while hiking up Harwood, I saw a young girl, with a bounce in her step coming towards me, wearing of ALL things: a Chico State shirt. The shirt, in and of itself, immediately bonded us to each other. Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly bonded to ME. Perhaps, stalked would be a better descriptive verb. But you know that feeling you get, when a cute young thang is wearing proof of where you spent the best days of your life?
I blurted out, "You go to Chico?" practically accosting her. She replied, "Yeah." I still can't believe I had this slip of the tongue, but I said, "I GO to Chico State." HELLO, Michelle? You WENT to Chico State... 15 years ago! But it was such a great, free, and independent time in my life, in my mind, I'm still living in Chico. Going to the Bear. Swimming at one mile. Drinking Coors lite on the porch.
If you would have told me 15 years ago, at this point in my life, I would have 4 kids and pregnant with my 5th, I would have told you to jump off a bridge, as I took a hit off my bong.
Indeed, my girls, constantly remind me, that I am aging. Thank goodness, I am confident enough to not the truth totally crush me. Just this morning at the breakfast table, Bella asked, "Mom, are you getting your hair colored, like soon?" My other 3 girls, just looked at me, their heads sympathetically nodding sideways, silently agreeing with Bella. "Why, am I turning gray up here in my temples?" (the first place to show). "Oh Mom, you're turning gray EVERYwhere!" I mean, what can I say to that? It's true!
Case in point, my eldest Abby, the other day, pulls me in close and says to me in a hushed tone, "Mom, you're looking kind of O-L-D," Trying not to laugh, and gearing up to hear the whole truth, and nothen but the truth, I said, "Abby, what part of me exactly looks O-L-D?" "Well Mom, you know how young women's boobs are perky and way up here?" she said, motioning to her collarbone. "Well, your boobs are smooshed and sagging way down here," she finished up her explanation, pointing to her belly button. I couldn't argue with her. I mean, it's TRUE. I just can't WAIT to hear what she will say about my boobs when I'm not pregnant anymore and done nursing....YIKES.
In my mind, I guess I don't equate myself with my age. I mean, who says a 38 year old can't wear glitter and rock a push up bra?! I will fight for my right to sparkle and stay perky, god dammit!
In fact, just the other day while hiking up Harwood, I saw a young girl, with a bounce in her step coming towards me, wearing of ALL things: a Chico State shirt. The shirt, in and of itself, immediately bonded us to each other. Well, maybe she didn't feel exactly bonded to ME. Perhaps, stalked would be a better descriptive verb. But you know that feeling you get, when a cute young thang is wearing proof of where you spent the best days of your life?
I blurted out, "You go to Chico?" practically accosting her. She replied, "Yeah." I still can't believe I had this slip of the tongue, but I said, "I GO to Chico State." HELLO, Michelle? You WENT to Chico State... 15 years ago! But it was such a great, free, and independent time in my life, in my mind, I'm still living in Chico. Going to the Bear. Swimming at one mile. Drinking Coors lite on the porch.
If you would have told me 15 years ago, at this point in my life, I would have 4 kids and pregnant with my 5th, I would have told you to jump off a bridge, as I took a hit off my bong.
Indeed, my girls, constantly remind me, that I am aging. Thank goodness, I am confident enough to not the truth totally crush me. Just this morning at the breakfast table, Bella asked, "Mom, are you getting your hair colored, like soon?" My other 3 girls, just looked at me, their heads sympathetically nodding sideways, silently agreeing with Bella. "Why, am I turning gray up here in my temples?" (the first place to show). "Oh Mom, you're turning gray EVERYwhere!" I mean, what can I say to that? It's true!
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