Gotta Get it Off My Chest

Literally . . . I walked in to a Victoria's Secret yesterday, for the first time in years.  No salesperson came near me.  Maybe I'm too old . . . and I'm supposed to know the secret by now.

Also, I've hit a new low:  my sports bras (aka tanks) now have four hooks!!!!

And, lastly, men . . . no matter how hot you think you are, please wear a shirt while exercising . . . sweat dripping off wet chest hair while running or biking is gross.

Thanks for "listening."

Saved By the Kid

Little guy just saved me a whole bunch of money . . . or at least temptation.  This is one of the hottest bags of the year . . . the Celine luggage tote costing four figures.  http://www.bagsnob.com/2012/05/dakota-fanning-totes-celine-for-off-day-chic.html

But when I look at the bag, I only see this:

For those of you unfamiliar, it's the Annoying Orange, star of an annoying iPad/iPhone game and videos that my youngest favors imitating.

Do you see it on the bag? . . . the handle attachments are eyes, the zipper is the mouth and the zipper pull is the tongue.

I showed it to two high-end sales associates who lust after the bag.  I ruined it for them; they'll never look at the bag the same way.  If sales plummet, I guess we know who's to blame.

A Model of Middle Age

Like most girls growing up, I briefly entertained dreams of being a model.  No matter that I was neither a beauty queen nor photogenic, I wanted to be pretty and thin enough to grace the cover of teen magazines.

That long-forgotten fantasy came to mind recently when I was (sort-of) asked to be a model.  A hair model.  Apparently, if my hair is properly colored, highlighted, cut, blown, curled  and extended, then it's perfect. What seemed like an extraordinary effort to me, was utterly normal to  the bi-coastal hair stylist.   My hair is the perfect candidate for perfection.

Unlike my legs.  My gams once were recommended for modeling.   They are the one body part I was raised to believe was ideal, albeit by my mother, from whom they are inherited.  However, others have agreed.  I proudly recall  that in my younger years, these limbs occasionally stopped traffic. Unfortunately, my legs, like me, are a bit too short for modeling.  

Fortunately, though, the legs are the last thing to go in middle age.  And I love wearing shorts, despite the burden of hair removal . . . which ironically brings me back to my locks . . . 

It would be cool to one day tell my grandchildren about my "modeling career" launched in middle age.   I suspect I would enjoy being styled on a regular basis. Extra money (or reduced hair bills) wouldn't hurt.   I just don't know whether those perfect legs could or should spend so much time in a chair. 

UnDrugged

I went for my antibiotic and left wanting an anti-depressant.  Mom & Pop are deserting me again.  As the pharmacy manager handed me my prescription, he told me the store was closing in a couple of days, as part of a multiple store sale to . . . you guessed it, CVS.   Prescriptions were being transferred to the big chain's local branch furthest from my home.

My heart sank.  I didn't know what to say except that I am sorry.  I will miss you.  I valued going to a small local pharmacy, even though the behemoth has two more-convenient locations.  I chose a store, even though it closed in the evenings and on Sundays, because the staff cared, knew my face if not my name and delivered.

Now, I have no choice.  This is the second Mom&Pop to leave.  None are left around here.  I feel like an orphan.

What the Puck?!!!!!

Youth ice hockey is its own religion.  Tryouts are on Good Friday, Passover and Easter.  Non-discriminatory, I guess.

Today's Funny . . . courtesy of you know who

Nine-year-old's inquiry:  Does expired milk come from expired cows?

You really can't make this stuff up!!!

On the Lighter Side . . . Out of the Mouths of Babes . . .

Nine-year-old learned dad was in Texas for the week.  He asked whether his father was going to be in a rodeo.  When I stopped laughing, I said no, but that dad was attending a dog and pony show.  Boy was interested at first.  Then, I  explained corporate finance.

No Magic Blue Pill Here

This is the pillbox of my nine-year-old.  You read that correctly:  my nine-, not ninety-, year-old.   Prescriptions for seven days of the week with am and pm dosing. Specifically, he takes four pills in the morning (although, for full disclosure, three are the same medication since that is the only way to get 30mg) and two in the evening.  None are blue . . . not that that matters.   More importantly and unfortunately, they are not magic.

Faced with a cornucopia of acronym diagnoses from the DSM-IV, medication is the prescribed remedy.  We (or perhaps I should say he) have tried assorted meds from different pharmaceutical categories in varied doses, both short- and long-acting, in assorted combinations . . . without much success.  We just can’t shake the right cocktail.  As a result, my kitchen counter is a virtual pharmacopeia of current and rejected drugs.

I look at my stash and wonder how I got here.  Just ten years ago, I scoffed at the notion of drugging my kids.  My eldest tried sugar pills before Ritalin.  Yes, we did ultimately go pharmaceutical, but not without a fight.  Alas, there was no placebo effect from sugar.  As time and children progressed, my anti-med resolve weakened.  By the time we got to the third kid, I was asking for the narcotics. 

Now, I beg that they work.  With each new prescription, hope rises . . . and fades.   My counter gets more and more crowded.  

Counting Up the Hits

Seven years.  Five hits.  None platinum . . .  or even silver.  Mine were white, green and black.  The color of my cars.  My cars that were hit by other vehicles.

The recent fifth smash instigated this countdown.  I can't help but wonder whether my cars come loaded with bullseye targets.  Or invisibility powers.   I have never hit another car (knock on wood, pooh, pooh, pooh), though I have done damage to my own vehicles, most notably in my own driveway for a 5am hockey practice drive.  That's another story . . .

Of the five hits, my vehicle was moving only in one instance, and going very slowly at that, as the traffic light had just turned green.  I was in a right turn lane, when the car in the middle go-straight lane turned right into me.  Smashing.

For two of the accidents, I wasn't even there.  My green truck was sideswiped while (legally) parked on a big road by a hit-and-run out-of-state pickup truck.  A good samaritan trailed the hitter and got the license plate, but local police weren't interested.  The cost of my missing side-view mirror was just below my deductible.  My black SUV also was hit while parked, but at least in that case, the offender left me a note and ponied up for the damage.

The most damaging bash was to my white wagon.  Stopped at a red light behind several other stopped cars, 36 hours shy of being turned-in off lease, another car plowed into it.  Technically, my car was pushed into the one in front of me, but that driver took off.  The offender's car was totaled; mine suffered $15,000 worth of damage.  So much for the resale value of that car, but at least that was the dealer's problem, not mine.

And, most recently, while in park, in a parking lot, an SUV backed right into my black SUV.  It's a big vehicle and kind of hard to miss.  Still, it was kissed . . . and a light broken.

Five in seven seems like a big number.  According to car insurance industry estimates, it probably is:  A  2011 Fox Business News report says a driver will file a claim for collision damages about once every 17 years.  So in a lifetime of driving, you should expect three or four accidents.  http://www.foxbusiness.com/personal-finance/2011/06/17/heres-how-many-car-accidents-youll-have/  Of course, missing from the stats are the large number of incidents where settlement is done privately.  But still.  My number is high.  And no Grammy for all the hits.

Update 5/11/12:  Another car was hit again yesterday right by my home.  It was parked; I wasn't around.  A neighbor got the hitter's info - we'll see if she calls back.

He's Not a Brain Surgeon

Nine-year old spontaneously begins discussing the brain - naming the parts and their functions.  He admits to finding it interesting.  Pushy mom (me) suggests he might become a doctor.  No, he says.  But it would be fun to build a brain out of legos.

New plan . . . if the lego brain can actually think, then the kid's a genius.

Update:  both grandmothers asked the same question - whether he's going to be a doctor

Stuff I Say to My Kids

Sometimes I get it right.  I inform the kids of matters on which I have no actual knowledge, using only my common/mommy sense.  Shockingly, they listen.

For years, I've told them that the only thing that hurts more than getting a tattoo, is having it removed.   I, myself, do not have any tattoos and therefore have never had one removed.  But I can imagine.  Correctly.  Minutes ago, I heard an interview with Mark Wahlberg where he said that he is having his tattoos removed and has his children attend the procedures as a deterrent to their getting tattoos.

There's no need to send them any articles about Wahlberg and the pain.  The two eldest express disdain for tattoos.  They already know.