Worst (Non-Violent) Date Ever

The title pretty much sums it up. I had to add the non-violent part, because (putting on my serious hat now) no matter how badly things go wrong, it's nothing compared to physical assault or abuse. That's no joking matter and I don't want to make light of it. Today's ramblings will not come close to comparing to a violent experience.

(Ok...hat off now.) I was looking at photos of my beautiful teenage niece on Facebook and started thinking about how scary it will be when Allie starts going to dances and on dates. Will she take my advice or listen to my opinion about the boys she likes? Hopefully, she will NOT be like me and she WILL be smart enough to listen to her mother. What time and grief that would've saved me!

arMy Younger Days before the Disaster Date..... back when I thought I was fat and hated my hair color.....if I could smack THAT me now, I would.  Hind sight really is 20/20.  Sigh.

We will have to give her all of the lectures about what's appropriate (which Im sure she wont listen to) and we will have to say things like "We don't advertise what's not for sale! Change your skirt!" like my father did when I tried to wear inappropriate things out of the house. And then we will probably bore her with our own personal experiences. All of those dates that went well....or went very wrong.

And that's when I remembered it. The Disaster Date. UGH!!!

I'm wondering if anyone else has horror stories like this. If so, Id love to hear them. I'd like to know that I'm not alone in the Disaster category. A Bad Date is one thing but DISASTER is just cringe worthy even 21 years later. When people tell me about their "bad dates" I always listen, hoping that we will bond over a story of comparable drama.....only to be disappointed. But THEY seem to feel a lot better after I share mine. Nice.

Let me set it up for you: I was 19 and going to cosmetology school in Hackensack, NJ. I met this extremely handsome guy there named Victor (who my mother instinctually, and correctly, disliked). He was very charming and quite hot. Did I mention that he was good looking? Every girl in that school, myself included, oogled him pathetically. One day, the stars were aligned in my favor and he asked me out on a date. We decided to double date with the only other straight guy there, Curtis, and my friend, Shannon.

Shannon and I drove to Victor's apartment to pick him up. We decided to take my car to get dinner, which was a 2 door Toyota Tercel. Victor and Curtis were both really tall, so Shannon and I volunteered to sit in the back. Things were going fabulously at this point. I was having a good hair day, I was dressed in my cutest ensemble and I was particularly witty that evening. All things which worked in my favor. Conversation was great. I felt like Cinderella. My confidence level was skyrocketing.

We got food and decided to go back to Victor's place to eat. We pulled into the parking lot and that's when things went wrong.

Victor got out of the car, moved his seat up and held out his hand to help me out of the back. I was so busy swooning and thinking how dreamy things were that I failed to notice that the front seat belt had wrapped around my foot. I took his hand, went to launch myself out all gracefully and then....

BAM!

Face plant into the pavement. Face. Plant. Into. Pavement.

I kinda remember everyone running to me and the "Oh my God"s and, as most people do when they see someone wipeout, laughter. When someone untangled my foot and I realized that embarrassment had not killed me as I wished it had, I rolled over. The laughter stopped immediately and I saw three horror filled faces staring at me.

Groggily, I asked, "Is it bad? What's wrong?" No one answered. Just mouths hanging open and eyes bulging.

My ankle hurt, my jeans were ripped, my palms were sliced up from trying to catch myself on pavement and there was a lot of blood coming from somewhere. Old Prince Charming himself picked me up and carried me into his house. He sat me down on the counter in the bathroom and that's when I got to see the carnage firsthand.

I had fallen face first, as I already mentioned, with the spot between my eyebrows (just above the bridge of my nose) being the first thing to hit. All that force on that one little spot. My forehead was all cut up, and my nose was bloody and turning black and blue. By the time they finished cleaning me up and feeding me alcoholic beverages, both of my eyes were starting to turn black and blue. And I had a headache that felt like I had gone a round with Mike Tyson.

The rest of the evening was uneventful and irrelevant. Every time they looked at me, someone would laugh or try really hard to stifle the giggles. I remember being kissed but being mortified really overshadowed that. I couldn't wait until we left and Shannon drove me to my father's house.

When I walked thru the door, my father was digging around in the fridge for food. He called out cheerfully from the other side of the refrigerator door, "How was your date?"

"Okay. I think. I'm not sure. There was a problem." I sounded calm. It could've been the liquor.

Until the day I die, I will not forget the look on my father's face when he closed that door and saw me. It was terror and rage mixed together. "J*sus F*cking C*rist, Vic!! A PROBLEM???? What the f*ck happened on this date?!! Did HE do this to you??!!"

Looking back, I can see how it would've been wise to ease him into the situation. But I was 19 and dramatic and, like most teenagers, completely oblivious to how parents think in regards to their children. Being a parent now, I can imagine how upset he must have been. Earlier, I had skipped out the door looking like a million bucks on my way to a date with Don Juan... and I came home looking like I got my ass kicked by a street gang. Two black eyes, nose and forehead cut up, blood on my shirt, pants ripped and my hands wrapped in bandages.

Disaster date.

Victor and I went out a few more times. And then he got a job as an ad model for a cigarette company. His ego became inflated. I was disgusted by his attitude and he felt he could do better in the girlfriend department, so we broke up.

However, what sealed the deal was when I walked into a hair color seminar and he was telling the story about our first date to a group of friends while waiting for the seminar to begin. It was far more humiliating and embarrassing hearing it from his perspective, which had recently been infused with major assholeness. It's that version that I hear in my head now.

My mother was right. He was a total jerk. And now he's a nobody.

Flash forward 15 years and I went on the best first date of my life. My mom really liked him, so I married that guy. Mom knows best. I wonder if Allie will agree. Maybe she'll at least listen to her Nana.

Welcome to TV Land . . . Smiles, Everyone! Smiles!

There's a really weird bond that can be created by television.  Have you ever met someone new and discovered that they watch the same shows you do and immediately you feel this kinship with them?  Like, just because they watch Dexter or The Good Wife, they're cool with you and you can become potential besties.

I remember getting my nails done years ago and all of the women who worked there were speaking to each other in Korean and the customers were just kind of looking around, smiling at each other if they happened to glance at each other at the same time.  There was a TV over my manicurist's head and I saw a Sopranos commercial come on.  There was a preview for the episode when Adrienne "goes missing" and we all kind of gasped.  

BAM!  Instant kinship.  

"Oh my gawd, did you see that?" "I bet they killed her." "No, Tony would never do that to Christopher!"  "She was such an idiot.  Why would she become a rat?" And then suddenly East met West and all of the Korean girls were talking to all of us on the other side of the tables.  It was like the UN!  It was the day that we all bonded at Fancy Nail.  Over kidnapping, murder and Mafia family values.  

The welcome wagon from The United Nations of Sopranos.  Not quite warm and fuzzy but they got the job done.

Flash forward a bunch of years and I'm posting on Facebook about how the Bubble Guppies songs are stuck in my head and I can't decide if its time for lunch or if everyone should line up and go outside.  Right away my phone starts alerting me to responses.  All of these other moms/grandmothers are hitting me with lyrics and hilarious sympathy.  I felt really connected to that group of people right then.  Over cartoon fish people who sing.

Click here to hear and see the highly addictive Outside Song....Warning : It sticks with ya

Then, there is the super weird bond over which we morph TV interests and start liking crap we never thought we would even KNOW the titles of because of who we live with.  I find myself alerting Justin that Gas Monkey is on in a half hour and "dont forget to tape Devil's Ride so I can see what happens later".  And Storage Wars has no mercy with picking a scheduled time for new episodes, so if its on we stop surfing and watch it.

One day (please forgive me, my VERY masculine husband) I come home to find that while he was sick, he watched the whole last season of The Real Housewives of New Jersey and he couldn't believe "those crazy bitches kept me from changing the channel for six hours!"  Suddenly, Im in luring him in with housewife insanity from four other cities and he's asking if I want him to set up Andy Cohen's WWHL on the DVR...cuz you KNOW he's got the 411, so you have to add that too.

The Bill Gates of Bitchy, Narcissistic, Campy Reality Television: Andy Cohen

(Note: I do feel bad about the Housewives thing.  I knew full well that he wouldn't be able to help himself once it was in on and in his face.  It was wrong, I know.)

Amongst the Duck Dynasty reruns are fifty thousand Peppa Pigs we save for Allie on the DVR.  We know all of the episodes ("this is the one where Daddy Pig forgets his blueprints at home and they make paper airplanes out of them") and we quickly learned the Mickey Mouse Club Hot Dog dance after seeing every episode on the Disney Channel and YouTube.  Now we are dragging a third person into our web of television insanity.

There was one particular day that this theory about television connecting people became very clear.  Justin came home and Allie had fallen asleep earlier with her head on my lap while we sat on the couch watching The Fresh Beat Band.  It was an hour long special where they remade the Wizard of Oz.  The show started at 4pm and he came home at 450pm (yes, its important to know the time).  He asks when she fell asleep and i tell him 415pm.  Then he starts talking to me about some medication situation at the the pharmacy (you know....Important stuff!) and I yell, "SHHUSHH! We are watching this!  We already invested fifty minutes and its almost over.  Can you just hang on??"  

Are you right there with him on this one?  You can take sides, its ok.

He looks at me deadpan and asks, "WHAT TIME did she fall asleep?"

"415.  I just told you that! " I had the audacity to start getting annoyed.

His eyebrows go up and he hits me with, "so WHO is watching this??"

Busted.  And a bit embarrassed.  My excuse for watching Nick Jr shows is asleep and yet I've been dragged into the BABY vortex......by a two year old who conked out, and four overly peppy adults pretending they are quirky teenagers while singing catchy songs.  

Personally, I think I've been set up.  I think he used Allie to get even with me for the Housewives franchise  invasion.  And I was caught in the act without an alibi,  nonetheless.

Well played, husband.  Well played......

Exercise Shmexercise

I just read an article in People magazine about Gwyneth Paltrow.  Someone decided that she's the most beautiful woman in the world right now.  Don't get me wrong....she IS beautiful and I would kill for that body, but "World's Most Beautiful Woman"?  I'm guessing that there are a shitload of men out there that are shaking their head's over this one.  You and I both know that she doesn't exactly fit the male criteria for owning that title.  I have a feeling that those who elected her were a bunch of Alpha women sitting around a conference table talking about how trendy All Things Gwyneth are, along with a bunch of men whose mothers taught them that if they want to walk out of a room like THAT alive they should nod in agreement and move along. 

One of the topics they covered was how Gwyn got that body.  Genetics alone was not enough.  She eats very well and tries to avoid eating crap.  But then there was the kicker.  Are you ready for this?  She works out for an hour and a half EVERY DAY.  Boy, was I ever disappointed.  AN HOUR AND A HALF???  I actually felt bad for her.  I'm sure she sees all of those naturally skinny bitches at award shows woofing down drinks and scarfing down fattening food and silently curses them.  "I just had a margarita.... now I have to work out an hour and FORTY FIVE minutes tomorrow!"

Here's my thing with this.... my first thought was that she's an actress, clothing designer, wife, mother, etc.  Where does she find that spare hour and a half?  You know she's busy.  She doesn't give off the appearance of being a bonbon eater.  And if she was, eventually one of her friends/"sources" would've ratted her out to the press. "Gwyneth sleeps until noon, has three nannies to take care of her kids, watches talk shows all afternoon and then gets all liquored up at night with her posse.  She's so selfish."

I'll be honest here.  I've spent the past 25 years looking for the easy way to get out of Chubbsterville.  I grabbed every diet, self help book, weight loss program, diet pill, workout fad, etc I could get my hands on in hopes that it would be the thing that was going to launch me into Smokin HotTown.  Fail.  Big. Fat. Fail.  I know that there's no way to cheat the system, yet I still get hopeful when I see something new.  And it pisses me off when I have to read that if I want to look like Gwyneth Paltrow I have to give up 1.5 hours a day.

F**k that!

Where will I find that time?  I can barely find time to have a date night with my husband or treat myself to a pedicure with one of my friends.  And every night I go to bed thinking that I should've spent more time with Allie.  And I WANT to sit down for an hour late at night to watch what's on the DVR.  I need decompress and forget about how the world pissed me off so I can be less disgruntled tomorrow. You don't even wanna know where I'm writing this from right now!

I could probably take a shower every other day (ew), shorten my appointments in the day (nice way to lose my job), eat dinner while exercising (instant agida) , and give up that hour of TV at midnight (again, that disgruntled thing that will surely result in single parenthood).  I'll be a nauseous, stinky, unemployed homeless person, but my body will be slammin'!  Nice.

I long for the day that society sees Adele as being hot.  Not in this lifetime, I'm sure, as the Marilyn Moment is gone forever.  Norma Jean had it goin' on.  I wanna know who screwed that one up???  It was probably some big cheese at People Magazine who was told to go eat a sandwich because she was too skinny.  This is her revenge.  Bitch.

I've got to put my little darling into her little bicycle "chariot" so I can ride my bike and tow her around with me, all in hopes of not weighing MORE tomorrow.  I don't see me looking like Gwyneth when I'm finished, but I try.

Princess Allie in her chariot

Reporting Live From the Toddler Bed

Ow.

Muther flucking OWWWWWWW!

I'm reporting live, to you, as a twisted mangled mess, from the toddler bed.  Don't believe me?  Well here I am:

Exhibit A ....  Smashed in bed

 Yes, that is me, in all my glory, in my dorky pajamas, jammed into this small bed next to my precious peanut who absolutely refuses to go to sleep alone in this lovely piece of furniture my mother gave her when she was born.   I can only pray that you focus on my sleeping child in that photo and not my Little House On the Prairie pjs.

By the way, whomever came up with the "its a crib with a changing table! ...No, its a toddler bed with the same changing table! ...No, its a regular bed with a night table attached!" concept was brilliant.  I won't need to buy another bed for her for years.  For those of you who saw "Airplane", please go back and read the first sentence in this paragraph as it was intended for the full effect.  (Its a hat....no its a brooch...) 

Anyway, I'm laying here, with my ass  hanging off the side of the bed, wondering how many other parents are doing the same thing.  I know there are tons of us.  My knees and hips are aching from bending this weird way to jam my suddenly-too-tall self in this bed. My core muscles are cramping from trying to balance myself in bed without clinging to my child.  My one arm is about to snap off  because I have it over our heads and twisted so neither of us has to lay on it.

Each time I move even a smidgen I go back to thinking that I need to lose weight now more than ever,  because the creaking that the bed frame makes as I lay down scares me.  I lay down in slow motion, silently telling the bed, "Okay, easy now.  I'm getting in slow.  You have time to adjust to the additional weight. (Creak)  Hey!  Don't you break on me!  How will I explain this to people if I hurt myself?  Allie will be traumatized and never want to get back in bed!" (Yes, I'm still working the No Trauma Bedtime Method)

For those of you wondering what possessed me to start laying in bed with Allie until she falls asleep, I had supporting evidence that it would be just fine. A year ago, when this bed was still in crib form, Justin got IN with Allie because she wouldn't fall asleep. And it WAS effective in getting her to fall asleep. I remember being shocked and asking, "You got IN? And its still standing??! And the baby isn't squashed????" This is how I got the nerve up to get in now. I figured if it didn't collapse when he did it, surly it would be fine for me. If this sucker breaks, I just know my big argument is going to be "But it held HIM! Why wouldn't I try it???"

It doesn't help that all of Allie's "friends"are in here with us.  Molly the Dolly, Augie the Doggie, Willow the Pillow, Green Bear, White Bear, Blue Monkey and, sometimes, Bruce the Moose.  I guess its evident which stuffed animals she received on my more creative days, huh?  My mother is right....I need help.

The same damn lullaby CD is playing that has played every night for over two years.  The nightlight is dimmed just right.  And somehow I will do a dismount backwards off of this bed,  super slowly, looking like A ninja  practicing my Twister skills while holding my breath and praying she doesn't wake up.  Because LET ME TELL YOU, the thought of her waking up and having to contort my shit back into this position brings tears to my eyes.  Its like being in the backseat of a car for too long, getting out and then having the driver say all causally, "Oh, this isn't it.  Get back in."  Fuck NO I won't!  I'll walk my crippled ass to our final destination before I get back in there!

And while I'm bitching, I can't wait until I can tell a story other than "Jack and the Magic Beans".  (I couldn't remember the whole story, so my version is more about the acquisition of said magic beans and the beanstalk, and less about the giant at the top of it.)  I miss the two months of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears".  I had that one down pat.  I could write a full screen play for that fairy tale.  "The Three Little Pigs" only lasted five days.  I think my version was a little too preachy. The Brick House Pig was very "I told you so"ish.  Apparently two year olds AND the other two pigs don't enjoy a smartypants pig.

If you have any bedtime stories that were winners that you would like to share, please please PLEASE do so!! Since I hear that the delicate breathing has turned into light snoring, I'm going to make a break for it. For those of you who aren't as lucky and are still doing time, God speed and may the force be with you. You're time is coming.  Our thoughts are with you.

This has been Flip Side Mom, reporting live from the toddler bed......back to you....

Genetics and Phonetics Works For Me

I'm a verbally expressive person (a/k/a jabberjaws). I started speaking at a very young age and it freaked people out. My grandmother claimed that it was her extraordinary intelligence, which was genetically passed down to me, that resulted in my ability to speak and read early. After 40 years with this brain, I do not wish to begrudge my grandma the opportunity to claim personal responsibility for my intelligence. However I think i just THINK more than my brain can hold so I have to constantly release information. It's like a pressure relief valve kinda situation.....Vic, things are piling up so you better relieve the pressure or you're gonna be in hot water!

Grandma's Smarts carrying on to another generation
August 2011

I love words. Especially rhyming words, made up words, or ones that provide entertainment. For example, after New York was attacked on 9/11, we turned on the news and left it on for about three weeks straight. After the second week, the news was becoming redundant and they were analyzing everything they could that was remotely related to theWorld Trade Center bombings. We were desperate to find distraction in the form of fun and humor WITHOUT missing any possible new information. It was then that someone suggested we play one of those dangerous word drinking games.

The rules: every time anyone on tv said Mujahideen, we would raise our glasses collectively, yell "Mujahideen!" in the same spirited tone that you would yell "cheers!", and take a huge gulp of our beverages. The game was a huge success as far as games go because, unfortunately, newscasters said Mujahideen almost as much as they said "damage" "terrorists" and "reporting live". I know this because I was not nearly as obliterated Mujahideen Night as I was when we played the game later using those other words.

Flash forward to 2013 when a two year old toddler is my constant source of entertainment. The words are coming at me in abundance with great hilarity and/or cuteness. Doodoo and peepees ain't got nothin on "I got the gasses" (i left a deadly and loud baby fart) followed by "accuse me" (excuse me) followed by "I don't done poopin in biggurl potty yet" (Im not finished pooping on my potty) followed by "no do diapey!" (youre not putting that diaper on me) and wrapped up with "Ahm naaaaaaaaaaakeyyyyy!" (Im naked, you cant catch me, and I want the whole neighborhood to know). Pardon the examples but we spend a lot of time in the bathroom lately.

My husband and mother glare disapprovingly at me when I trap Allie into saying Allieisms like "geen" (green), "lellow" (yellow), "orrnage" (orange), "logert" (yogurt), "keening" (cleaning) and "medinaise" (medicine) by using strategic questions....and then I repeat it just as she said it while shooting a look back at them that says "I birthed her and its cute, so plllllbth".

Somehow I have a feeling that she's going to work it all out before Kindergarten. Proper English will prevail. Not once during my twelve years in public school did I ever encounter a person who said things like, "shhhhhh! I don't can hear, pease!" or "pease make baby peenah-jelly sannich."

My father made up fake words and definitions all of the time when I was a child. He lied to me about harmless things for the sake of amusement and he made up imaginary people that I thought were family friends that I kept missing. I thought bunny poop was what they made marbles out of (he said they were piles of baby marbles) and I thought we had two Swedish friends named Yelnitz and Yendurb who came to visit but,unfortunately for me/conveniently for the bullshitter, I was always in bed when they got there.

Sometimes he combined the fibs! There were the three Native Ameican brothers named Moheeken, Boheeken, and Hobomeeken who came Christmas Eve to deliver pet bunnies, but I was asleep (of course) so they left the bunnies along with a note about starting my own marble collection. It was seriously entertaining stuff and I fully plan on doing the same type of thing to my own child. Why? Because it was fun, it created awesome memories with a father who I didn't see much, and people laugh when I tell them about it. Actually, many people comment on how it explains a lot about where MY wackiness came from, so you can add that its a little self defining as well! :-)

The best part? It didn't traumatize me and as I grew up I figured out the truth. I was almost disappointed when I found out about the fibs. I remember wishing I could UN-discover the truth and continue to play on. I think that if I got to be somewhere around oh, sayyyy 16 and I still hadn't figured out that my dad didn't have Swedish or Indian friends, or that marbles were actually made out of glass, SOMEONE wouldve sat me down and worked it out for me.

In other words, it was all harmless fun and no damage was done.

Or so they say.....