Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Trashy Shorts: How About Nothing?

Husband to 1st grader:  Buddy, you're old enough now.  I think it's time you start rinsing your own dishes and putting them into the dishwasher.
1st grader:  Oh, that's a great idea, Dad!  And how much will I get paid for that?

By the way, how is it that with school being out for the summer, I now have a FIRST GRADER?  Is anyone else freaking out about how time flies and kids grow way too quickly??


Friday, May 22, 2015

Don't Quit Your Day Job

I recently posted a Short in which I mentioned how my best friend and I got jobs as servers in a restaurant when we were in college.  And we were horrible at it.

I think she was even worse than I was, which was very telling of her skills, as all I ever did was sit at a back table and watch one of the more experienced servers as she walked by, balancing a huge platter of plates and drinks on her shoulder.

“Wow,” I would breathe.  “Where do you think she learned to do that?”

My best friend Leigh, sweating with the all-around exertion and anxiety that being servers seemed to cause us (even when we weren’t doing anything) would shoot me a disgusted look.  “Um, I don’t know, dumbass. Probably here?

“When will we learn how to do it?” I’d respond, hardly breathing as the veteran server squatted and then executed a perfect platter slide-off to the empty table next to her customers and began passing out plates of food.

“Well, they’ve already tried to teach us several times,” Leigh would mutter.

Once, Leigh found me in the kitchen, where I was trying to flirt with one of the hot waiters.  “Oh my gosh, Shay,” she said, her face red with anger.  “That asshole sitting at the bar just told me that I’d make more money up in his room with him!”

We worked in a hotel bar/restaurant where most of the customers were staying.

I blinked at her.  “So what time are you meeting him up there?”

“SHAY!” Leigh shouted, all offended. “I’m not!

I looked at the hot waiter, who just shrugged at me.  “Why not?” I asked my best friend, surprised.  “He’s right.  You would make more money up in his room. You suck shit at this job.”

Leigh sniffed, indignant.  “Sure I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to turn tricks in a hotel room!”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “When did you get so proud, Leigh? Didn’t you just get it on with a guy you met at a bar?  For free?  In our apartment?  Which is a hell of a lot shittier than these hotel rooms?  In fact, I’d say turning a trick or two in the penthouse suite is a total step up from the other night…”

As my best friend seemed to be considering, it was my turn to be offended.  “Hey,” I said, narrowing my eyes.  “I refilled that guy’s peanut bowl.  Why the hell didn’t he ask me to come to his room and make a few bucks?”

Leigh and the hot waiter looked at me—and, more specifically, my hair—as if no explanation was necessary.  And it wasn’t.

After all, it had been just the other night when we’d all gotten off of work and headed to the hot waiter and his roommate’s apartment to have drinks and he’d looked at me, raised his eyebrows appraisingly, and said, “You know, you’d be really cute if it weren’t for that boy haircut.”

That blasted haircut. Thank God he had still made out with me…but still.  That blasted haircut.

I had gone in for The Rachel, but the cut had ended up far from it.  It was even worse than the time I was 5 and went to the salon with my mom and my older sister. I was so in awe of the sinks where I watched people lay their heads back and be sprayed with the handheld nozzle by the hairstylists that I convinced my mom I wanted my beautiful, back-then-naturally blonde hair chopped to my ears just so I could get a turn in that sink.

I cried for days afterwards, screaming at my mom, “Who listens to a five-year old?!”

My collegiate haircut was so horrible that during the months it took for it to grow out, I found myself yearning for the days in which I had once been compared to Tori Spelling.

That’s how bad it was.

One of the girls we knew from our old dorm described it like this:  “It looks like an airborne mushroom decided to land atop your head.”

And I went, “Who says ‘atop’?  Fcking nerd.”

And she replied, “Says the girl with the mushroom atop her head.”

Dammit.

Anyway, Leigh never ventured up to Pretty Woman it in the guy’s hotel room, and although I think that was probably the best choice, I was still mad that during our “I Have Never” drinking games (in which everyone who actually HAS done what the speaker says he or she has never done has to drink), I wouldn’t be able to make her drink in front of everyone by saying, “I have never been a prostitute.”

She always did ruin all of my best plans.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Trashy Shorts: May You Please

We have a neighbor that my kindergartener has always really adored.  One of the many reasons for this is because the neighbor gives him a Gatorade from the stash in his garage almost every time my son runs over to say hi.

I started to feel bad about it a long time ago, so I told my son that he was not allowed to ask for a Gatorade, but that he could accept one if our neighbor offered.

Yesterday after school, my son ran over to say hi and, once again, came back with a Gatorade.

I raised my eyebrows in a stern look.  "You didn't ask for that Gatorade, did you?  Did he offer it?"

My son looked at me, all wide-eyed innocence.  "I just asked him, 'May you offer me a Gatorade, please?'"

OMG, and it worked.

I realized something about myself yesterday:  I think maybe I'm too honest of a person.  I'm going to start trying to find ways around the rules like my son does.

He's an inspiration.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Be on the Lookout

A couple of months ago, the hubs and I were driving the kids to see their grandparents, who live a couple of hours away.

My husband turned on the radio, and we settled in for the drive.  

Suddenly, we heard the local newscaster's voice:  "Be on the lookout for 2 camels who have gotten loose in the area..."

The hubs and I looked at each other.  Blinked.

"Did he just say--"

"No.  No, surely not."

I turned to the backseat to ask the kids if they'd just heard what we thought we'd just heard, but they were both fast asleep.

Then we heard the newscaster's voice once more: "AGAIN, be on the lookout for 2 camels on the loose in the area."

A couple of moments passed. Then I looked at my husband.  "What the fck kind of backwoods place did you move me to 6 years ago for your job?  And do you think anywhere else is hiring?"

My husband kept his eyes on the road.  "I'll start looking Monday."

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Creeper

I talked here about how my younger son has been following in his older brother's footsteps by sitting on the couch, random food item in hand, and noshing while critiquing my workouts.

The other morning, he kicked it up a notch by dragging his little red plastic Avengers chair from its spot in the playroom so that he could set it up against the wall, where it would directly face me while I rocked Jillian Michaels's Banish Fat Boost Metabolism DVD.

"You know, son," I said breathlessly as he settled into the chair, both eyes on me.  "You can sit on the couch."

"No, fank you," he replied.  "I can watch you better from here."

Whatever, creeper. At least he wasn't eating a donut this time.

Monday, May 18, 2015

Trashy Shorts: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner

When you're cleaning your guest bathroom on Friday night in preparation for the guests that you'll be having over the next day, and you find your mind wandering, causing you to realize that because you have so many people over, you aren't even sure who the last people to have visited were.

You shrug, smiling, almost humming to yourself because what a blessing to have so many family and friends visit that you can't even remember which ones were the last to do so--simply because it's hard to keep them all straight.

And then your eyes land on a stray pube, waiting to be swiped out of the shower with the paper towel you've doused with disinfectant spray...and suddenly, you feel a whole lot more intimate with each and every one of those previous guests, as you can only take a guess as to whose stray piece of bush/happy trail is currently resting in your otherwise gleaming bath tub.

It's not an altogether welcome feeling, as many of those guests have, as we've already established, been family members. And really, even if I knew the pube belonged to a friend, which would be a little less gross...well, it's small consolation, because my friends aren't that hot.

And you guys, I just don't really think I want to talk about this anymore.

BARF

Friday, May 15, 2015

Batshit

Last week, I walked into my son’s kindergarten classroom to find him reading one of those little I Can Read books to 5 preschoolers who had come upstairs from their own classroom for the reading mentor program.  I had to turn away, acting like I had something caught in my eye so that his teachers wouldn’t realize I was wiping away the tears that were threatening to overflow.

The next day, I had to take my 3-year-old to the dentist.  And goddammit, I shit you not, tears began welling up in my eyes again as he reclined in that chair. 

“Look at him,” I sniffed to the dental assistant who was preparing to clean his little teeth.  “He’s getting so big right before my eyes!  He fills up the entire chair!”

I’m sure it took every ounce of control she had to resist pointing out that we were currently in a pediatric dentist’s office, and that most kids—barring those with severe growth deformities— filled up the chair.

It wouldn’t have mattered.  It really wouldn’t have.  Because those tears were coming out no matter what. 

“It’s just—” I blubbered as she avoided eye contact as much as possible by busying herself with preparing her tools “—it’s just that my boys are growing up so fast.”

I was surprised she didn’t inconspicuously reach for any little red HELP buttons on the side of the chair and get security to haul me the fck out of there.  Because that’s not batshit crazy, is it?  Breaking down in the middle of the pediatric dentist’s office because your son fills the chair?

God help me.

It’s all going too quickly.  I love them so much it hurts, and they’re growing up too fast.  I need more kids so that when one starts growing up, it’s not so hard because another is right behind him, softening the blow of passing time with his own little milestones.

I swear, I’d have had an entire baseball team if I could’ve gotten over my distaste for pregnancy and months 0-24 in the life cycle of an infant. It’s the one teensy flaw, I think, in God’s design.

Don’t worry; I’m not blaspheming.  He knows I feel this way.  I told Him all about it every single day of the 9+ months of my pregnancy with my second son. 


After I thanked Him, of course.

(Quit making fun of me.  I went through 12 years of Catholic school and WE CAPITALIZE GOD'S PRONOUNS, dammit)