A Meme

I never have any time to do meme's but this one was just too easy and Jenell was so nice to tag me.

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD:
1. Selling pantyhose at Parklane Hosiery
2. Selling Turkish rugs
3. Kept 10 2-year olds from killing themselves before mommy and daddy picked them up after work
4. Customer service rep for a now-defunct two-bit airline started by old (and I mean OLD as well as former) Eastern airline employees

FOUR MOVIES I'D WATCH ON REPEAT:
1. Overboard
2. Dave
3. Sense and Sensibility
4. Pride and Prejudice

FOUR TV SHOWS I LOVE:
1. Grey's Anatomy
2. House
3. One Tree Hill
4. Deadwood

FOUR CAREERS THAT APPEAL TO ME:
1. Professional wrestler
2. Barista at Starbucks
3. Chef at a bed and breakfast
4. Owning my own brew pub

FOUR JOBS (FILLED BY PEOPLE I KNOW) AT WHICH I WOULD BE TERRIBLE:
1. Economist (what the hell do these people do anyway?)
2. Meeting planner (who cares if you got your invitation a day late--you were one the backup list anyway)
3. Lawyer
4. Lawyer

FOUR VACATION LOCALES I'D LIKE TO HIT:
1. Tierra del Fuego
2. Antarctica
3. Moorea
4. Beijing

FOUR FOODS I LUST AFTER:
1. Chubby Hubby
2. Penne a la vodka
3. Creme Brulee
4. Flourless Chocolate Torte

FOUR CHANGES I'D MAKE TO THE HOUSE
1. Burn it down.
2. Throw out everything owned by my husband.
3. Extend my kitchen by 750 square feet and add a double oven and a six burner stove
4. Burn it down.

FOUR BEERS I LIKE:
1. Amstel Light
2. Any Hoppy Dog Brew
3. Grolsch
4. Heineken

Oscar isn't the only one using the trash can for entertainment purposes

Remember all that crap I wrote in a prior post about being a good mom. It was BS. Because I resorted to writing about it, I clearly am trying to convince myself that no, I don't need to be carted away for my poor maternal behavior.

Take this morning, for instance. I was in the shower trying to decide if my nasal passages were ever going to feel the air again or if I was forever destined to walk the earth with a head full of snot.

As I contemplated this, the baby was wandering around the bathroom. I figure that as long as I don't hear the toilet seat go up, we're good. But then he started to cough. I peaked around the side of the shower curtain and there he was, standing in the middle of the bathroom, trying to cough out little pieces of toilet paper from the last square left on the the roll that had been thrown in the trash can.

You guys know that last square. The square of toilet paper that is stuck to the roll that you neglect to liberate now because, by God, you have a little more money and you don't need to get that roll out of the trash can and use the last square like you did in college. The efforts you used to take to liberate the last millimeter of toilet paper on the roll back in college because damn it, you didn't have any money to buy toilet paper and you meant to steal some from the john at school but you got distracted by that really hot guy that sits in front of you in English, and now you are going to have to try to use the brown roll because the last square isn't cutting it.

I went back to my shower because if I don't figure out how to breathe soon, we are going to have bigger problems than toilet-paper-breath on the baby. I finished my shower and flung open the shower curtain to find my child standing in the middle of the bathroom with a used Q-Tip dangling from his mouth like a cigarette. Gross? yes. But did I get my shower? yes.

I say there is another side of that Q-Tip when you are finished with that one, buddy. I still have to get dressed.

A monk, a nun and 2 red bras

Every year my in-laws go to the Caribbean for 2 weeks with three other couples. They have been doing this forever. They come home every year and regale us with stories that would make your ears curl up and fall off your head. Tales of costumes, skits, songs. It sounds like kid's summer camp, except instead of bug juice there is a lot (A LOT) of gin and tonics. And wine. And beer. Enough that my FIL always says that one of these years they are going to swing by Betty Ford for a couple of days on the way home to air out.

Apparently crazy things always happen at the beach. Just last week they were discussing the nun habit that my FIL got for my MIL to wear this year. He has a monk outfit. But our favorite story is the year my MIL was showing the vacation pictures to a friend and she had forgotten to take out the picture of my FIL, wearing only an apron. I didn't ask if the view was from the front or the back. I now refuse to look at vacation pictures. You can never be too cautious.

This year the 'rents decided to swing by our town on their way down. I picked them up from the airport yesterday, with the Boo in tow.

MIL: Can we stop by a department store? We need to buy red bras for FIL and Tommy.

That kind of comment will send you careening off the road. Into opposing traffic. Full of semis. What do you say to that? Part of me was freaking out but part of me was fascinated that I could participate in this psychosis. So off we went to Target. I couldn't see buying my FIL a Victoria's Secret bra that he would only wear for 2 weeks. Really. 15 minutes later we were in the Lingerie department.

And there he was. My 6'5" FIL, trauma surgeon extraordinaire, trying on a lovely red lace bra over his green shirt. It fit.

I could go on about Gonzalo, Target's Customer Service Representive/Traumatized Checker, but I have already gone too far. These people sure know how to have a good time.

Lack of information? I think not.

I'm a slacker. I'll admit it. But every once in a while I'll take hero's measures to rise up above mediocrity.

Like childrearing, for instance. I own 37 books on pregnancy, what to expect when you have run out of things to expect, how to make your child a friggin' Einstein. Blah, blah, blah. Did I read every single one of them? Hell, no. I made a good faith effort.

But I am pretty sure that the stuff that continues to surprise me will not be found in any book (other than the one I will be writing when this is all said and done). Last night would be case in point.

I'm sitting on the couch and the boy is playing with his cars on the floor. Happy as a clam. Which is when I should have realized that something was very, very wrong. I got up to get something off the book shelf above him and I thought I caught of wisp of something foul.

"Buddy, did you fill your diaper?"

He kind of looked at me like I had three heads and I sat back down. His father said that he couldn't smell anything. Convenient, wouldn't you say? I figured that I would give the kid a few minutes to work it all out.

But the smell was getting stronger. I went over and picked him up.

There... in the middle of the floor... was a pile of poop. It looked strangely like that gag-gift plastic poop that you would get when you were a kid. The one that you would slip onto someone's chair before they sat down so everyone would laugh when the victim jumped up in surprise.

My 11-month old crapped in the middle of the living room. Right out the side of his diaper and onto Ernie, as a matter of fact. I took a picture of it to put on the post, but I think it would be too offensive for my mother.

I just never realized that having a baby would be so much like having a puppy.