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Have You Seen It?

I can’t find my cell phone. Again. I hate how dependent I have become on an electronic device! And the worse part is, my phone isn’t even a state of the art slide-phone with apps and GPS and bells and whistles. I can make calls. I can take calls. I can text. That’s it. Yet, when the phone decides to grow legs and take a personal day, I’m left feeling like I’m missing a limb.
I was 20 when I got my first cell phone. We’re talking 1999, people. I had this Sprint flip phone with a digital display window. Mercifully, it wasn’t the size of my shoe, but it surely wasn’t high on style. It was to be used only in case of emergencies, like when my car broke down on the side of the road or when. . .well, when my car broke down on the side of the road. That’s it. And that was okay. I left it in the charger most times, I took it to and from work with me, but mostly forgot that I had it. Fast forward ten years and while the cell phone model I have is just as antiquated, I count it among the things I have to have when I leave the house. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. Cell? Check. I have those three things and I’m good to go. Wait, I’m supposed to have something else. What. . .was. . .it? Wallet, keys, cell. Wallet, keys cell. Oh, the kids! Right.
Anyway, the cell phone has been gone for about 48 hours and I’m starting to worry. It’s not as though I haven’t misplaced my phone before. I lost my phone when we were living in our last apartment. I looked everywhere, I called it from the house phone, nothing. I was worried it had gotten stolen and some yahoo was racking up long distances calls on my nickel. So, I got T-Mobile on the phone and was getting ready to have the whole thing shut off when it occurs to me to ask the sales rep when the last call was made. She gives me the info and I’m puzzled because not only did I make the last call, I know exactly where I was when I made it and what I did when I finished. Cut to the front hall closet, and there, in my jacket pocket, on vibrate (of course), is my phone.
But back to my current predicament. I asked the girls if they’ve seen it, which elicits a “yes” from one and a “no” from the other. I’m not even going to pursue it with them. I ask DH if he’s seen it, to which he replies, “Last time I saw it, you had it.” Thanks, honey.
I channel my inner Sherlock and start re-tracing my steps. Of course, the problem is, if I knew where I had it last, I wouldn’t have to do that, right? So, I just start working my way through the rooms of the house. I check our room, the bathroom, the closets, the girls rooms, the guest room, the other bathroom. I head downstairs, and I ransack the laundry room, the kitchen, the living room, and the family room. In the family room, I upend all of the cushions in the sofas and find the following:
1. several popcorn kernels
2. half of a princess tiara
3. 28 cents
4. two pencils
5. a Netflix envelope with no DVD (whew!)
6. a Barbie brush
7. a Barbie shoe
8. a Valentine’s Day sticker
9. 1 broken potato chip
10. my lovely disposition (I was wondering where that had wandered off to)
I go back upstairs and go through my pocketbooks, even the ones I’ve forgotten I own. I look in my gym bag, I look in shoe boxes. I go back downstairs and look in the pockets of all of my coats (again), even the ones I know I haven’t worn in the past 6 months. I even open a package I had wrapped for the UPS guy hoping that maybe I boxed it up by mistake.
No phone.
I call the phone. I mean, I call it using the house phone, though I’m getting to the point where I’m not above calling out to it, “Phone! Phone, you better answer me when I’m talking to you!” Clearly, this is driving me crazy.
I’m thinking about where I had it last. What was I planning to do? Charge it. So it’s probably somewhere without power. Great. Okay, but where was I going? DH and I were going out of town and I planned to charge the phone when we got to our hotel. But the thing is, I realized on the way out of town that I had forgotten the phone. Ugh, I’m just going down one dead end after another. I figure that I’m take a zen approach and stop looking for it. The phone will come to me. Yeah, that lasted all of an hour.
I got up this morning and started going through the house all over again.
My last resort was to check my car. Again. It’s early, about 5:15 am and I look like Zippity-Do-Dah in my pajamas/sweats and winter coat as I head outside. Turns out we forgot to re-arrange the car seats from DH’s car back to mine, so I figure, I’ll handle that before I look for the phone. I unlock his car on the passenger side and something tells me to stick my hand in that little catch-all pocket affixed to the door.
Sonofa–
I’m getting a leash and a bell for this flippin‘ thing.

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IN: ON: December 14, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Overheard at the Public Library

I’m literally typing this as it is occurring. A little back story first, though. I have about 20 minutes to spare before I have to start my after-school pick-ups of the girls, so I decided to hit the public library and peruse the Internet for a bit, work on my on Christmas list, if you will.

I’m in the computer lab and there are a fair number of people in here engaged in various computer related activities. There’s a lot of You-Tubing and Facebooking going on. I hear a cell phone ring, but it’s quickly silenced, so I keep searching Zappos for a pair of leopard print wedges in size 8 1/2. Next, I hear the patron sitting diagonally from me talking in a hushed voice. Must of have been his cell phone I conclude. He’s getting kind of irrirated with whoever it is on the other line and I’m starting to hear some expletives peppering his conversation. Now, I’m no library Gestapo, but there are signs all over the place imploring people to take their calls outside. I briefly glance up and realize, he is talking to his computer screen. Here’s the convo:

“Oh, you gonna delete me like you think you da shit. Well I’mma tell you, I’m the shit. Yeah, I AM the shit. Ain’t this some shit. I’mma show you who the shit is, that’s what up. Shiiiiiiiiit!”

I think I’m going to start a movement to insist that in order to use the computers at the public library, you must take a written exam on what is, where to find and how to use

this book right here:

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IN: ON: December 8, 2009 TAGS: BY: Hilary
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Birthday Party Regulars

The girls have been invited to a slew of birthday parties as of late. They’re invited to parties for children in their respective classes from school and invited to parties from neighborhood kids and other kids we know. We’ve been to parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s and we’ve been to parties at Inflatation Nation, Kangaroo Jacks and The Jumping Monkey. We’ve been to parties at the Botanical Gardens, parties at the Zoo, parties at Tidewater Gymnastics Academy and parties at J.W. Tumbles. And let me just say that this J.W. Tumbles place is pretty popular with the 5 and under set. The girls were invited to two parties at the same J.W. Tumbles on the same day one right after the other. Whew!

In a previous life, I tried my hand at wedding planning and these kiddie parties are starting to make receptions look like Kool-Aid and Chex Mix served on Chinet. One party Mo was invited to was held in an event space that used to be a restaurant. It was a carnival theme party complete with a face painter, a balloon artist, an inflatable jump house, a popcorn machine, a cotton candy machine, and rows of carnival games. There was pizza made to order along with other fair food and an open bar for the parents. And did I mention the birthday boy was turning 5. FIVE.

Of course with all of these parties comes the purchasing of a gift for the birthday boy or girl. I have never been good at figuring out what kind of gift to give. I mean, yes, I have children of my own, but their likes and dislikes change from minute to minute. So what do you do for someone else’s child? Do you get something educational like books or other learning “toys” that the child will probably pull out of the wrapping paper and toss over their shoulder while saying, “Next!”
Do you go for a coloring book and crayons? Clothes? Maybe take a cue from the cartoon character on the invitation and go for something from the extensive options that Thomas the Tank Engine/Strawberry Shortcake/Spongebob/Dora/The Disney Princesses or Pirates of the Caribbean have to offer?
Do you go for a gift card to Toys R Us or Target and let the child pick their poison present? Lately, we’ve been giving Coldstone Gift Cards as presents, but sometimes I feel conspicuously empty handed when we arrive at a party and simply hand over a card in the midst of brightly wrapped packages and gift bags. At the last party we went to, the birthday girl and a few of her minions came charging out of the front door when we arrived. Mo handed the birthday girl the envelope with the card and said “Happy Birthday”. Minion #1 said, eyeing the envelope suspiciously, “Wait, where’s the gift? Didn’t you bring a gift?” Minion #2 said, “It’s her birthday, you have to give her a gift!”
Look, we didn’t just get off the Goodship Lollipop; I know how this whole birthday thing works. I don’t do rude and was about to give her lil’ buns a lesson in respect, but DH had a hand on my shoulder to steer me away before it got ugly. Besides, they were like six and seven years old and I wasn’t really trying to bring home a lawsuit in our goody bag.
But back to gift selection. Do you get the child something obnoxious and loud that you would never allow in your own home? DH took Co to a birthday party last week-end and the child opened their presents at the party (not a fan of that, but whatever). So the birthday boy opens some blinking, beeping, whirring and clanging toy, and his mother says –out loud, in front of everyone — “Oh, how nice. I think we’ll give that to the school!”
WOW.
Anyway, we have yet another party to attend today. Somehow I managed to wait until the last minute to get a gift for the party, so I had Mo and Co with me when I went to pick one out for the birthday girl. We’re good friends with the birthday girl and her family, and yet, I couldn’t think of anything that she didn’t already have. I wanted to fall back on my gift card option, but I had mentioned how I’d been using that as my go-to gift when her mom asked me for some ideas when they had a party to attend.
So, we’re wheeling around Target and hit the toy aisles. Mo and Co are begging me to slow down so they can peruse the merchandise and longingly trail their fingers along the shelf’s edge. We pass a Dora the Explorer display and I pick up one of the dolls to examine it. I ask Mo if remembers whether or not the birthday girl likes Dora.
“Oh, yeah. She likes Dora.” Mo volunteers. “She likes Dora as the mermaid!”
From the back of the cart, Co pipes up, “I like Doe-wa. I like Doe-wa.” I seem to remember that the birthday girl does like Dora, but she may have this particular doll already. I explain as much to Mo.
“Well,” she says, “Why don’t you let me hold onto that Dora while you look for something else?” She’s a smart one, that Mo-dizzle.
We look at everything from LeapFrog Learning Pads to The Littlest Pet Shop and everything in between. With every step, I hear “What about this? Why don’t you let me look at it while you keep walking?” from Mo, and “I like Kai-Lan. I like Ponies. I like Abby Cadabby. I like Wonder Pets.” from Co.
Suffice it to say, a gift was purchased, wrapped and ribboned. Mo and Co have totally bypassed Christmas lists and are working on their first drafts of next year’s birthday wish lists. Oh, and they’ve already decided they each want a themed party — Cinderella/Sleeping Beauty Party for Mo (quelle surprise) and Ariel Party for Co. I wonder if I can rent out the Scope.
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IN: ON: December 5, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Bits and Pieces on a Wednesday Afternoon

I’ve been feeling like crap on toast since Saturday. I’ve gotten a post-Thanksgiving head cold and have been taking a Claritin/Alka-Seltzer Cold cocktail to fight the germs. My mom made me a hot toddy last night, and my train of thought has been boarding at the station ever since. Consider this post Exhibit A.
— What is is it about public toilets? Mo is obsessed with public toilets, or as she simply calls them, “publics“. Like any mother worth her Calgon moments, I make sure everyone has hit the bathroom before we leave the house. When we get to our destination for the day, I ask if anyone has to go to the bathroom. I carry a portable potty in the trunk for this very reason. And still, I find myself in the middle of Wal-Mart with a cart full of food and a 4 year old singing, “Pee pee is coming! Pee is coming!” When we do get to the bathroom, Mo dutifully lines the seat, either with the toilet seat cover or one she fashions out of toilet paper. Once perched upon the seat, she asks me, “Is this a publics?” Um, are we at home? Yes, yes, it’s a public toilet! This past week-end, DH and I took the girls out furniture shopping (a.k.a Dante’s seventh circle of hell). Not five minutes into the trip, Mo announces she has to use the toilet. DH decides to take her, saint that he is, but quickly returns to where Co and I are perusing merchandise and says, “You gotta take her. Someone’s dropping a deuce in the men’s room and it stinks.” Mo looks at me and says, “I went into that publics and I was like, ‘Ewwwww,'”. *sigh*
—- Speaking of public toilets, why is it that no matter how many stalls are in a public bathroom, I always, always, ALWAYS get the one with the warm toilet seat?! *barf*
— If you were to look in the front seat of my car, you’d think that I was living out of my Murano. I can’t take on any passengers because the seat and the floor are full of shopping bags. Now, let me clarify. These aren’t bags full of clothes and shoes from the mall (well, maybe one or two), but it’s stuff that I take with me when I leave the house for the day.
Honestly, it looks as though we’re moving out every morning. Since we’re up and out shortly after 8am every day, I try to be as prepared as possible and pack things that we’ll need until we come home in the late afternoon. I look like Matthew Henson leaving for the North Pole. I’ve got Mo, Co and their school bags. I’ve got my gymbag with a change of clothes and my essential personal care products. I’ve got my purse with my planner, my wallet, a piece of fruit and a bottle of water in it. I’ve got my computer bag holding the computer, the power cord and several magazines. I’ve got our lunch bag with juice boxes, snacks and sandwiches in it. I’ve got my bag of items that need to be returned or exchanged to their respective stores. I’ve got a bag of clothes to drop off at Goodwill. I’ve got a Trader Joe’s bag full of library books that need to be returned. I’ve got another Trader Joe’s bag full of leftover’s from my fridge that I’ll give my parents because my mom doesn’t cook and my dad hates to miss a meal.
I need a Sherpa and a llama.
— Daylight savings means it gets darker earlier, right? It’s barely 3:30 and I just saw the postman walking down the street wearing a miner’s helmet with a canary perched on her shoulder.
Ugh, I’m so congested, I sound like Darth Vader.

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IN: ON: December 2, 2009 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Say, Aren’t You In School?

I have been spending quite a bit of time writing about the goings on that make up the bulk of how I spend my days. I haven’t talked much about nursing school, and that’s been for good reason. I’m not in nursing school any more.

For those of you who know me well, you probably already heard this story, but for those of you who don’t, let me tell you. This is an abbreviated version, but all the facts are true and recalled to the best of my recollection.

What is comes down to is that I didn’t want to be a nurse. It was never my dream. It was more like something I thought I could do and be good at. I have never doubted my abilities when it comes to trying new things. Want to learn a new language? Why not. Want to try a new instrument? Hand it over. Want to try grad school? Absolutely. See, some folks thought my leaving school was because I couldn’t handle the clinicals. Sure, no one wants to wipe senior citizen ass, but you do it because it’s part of the curriculum and it’s part of being a nurse. Did I want to wipe ass and give sponge baths? Nope, not really. Did I wipe ass and give sponge baths. Yes, I did and I was very good at it, too (toot, toot! beep, beep!).
It was never a question of can I or can’t I do it. I can do anything. It was whether I wanted to do it. When you have a passion for something, it doesn’t matter the peaks and valleys you cross to get there. Whatever your goal is, you are so passionate about it, you can’t see yourself separated from that goal. That goal is who you are, what you know. It’s what you eat, sleep, and breathe. It’s what makes you say, “I have always wanted to be XYZ. I have always known that I am supposed to do XYZ.”

So how did I get here? How did I learn the difference between capability and desire as motivating forces? Let’s start at the beginning. When I was pregnant with Co, I had some fantastic pre-natal nurses at my OB’s office. They were smart, efficient and personable women that had a great camaraderie in this practice. I thought, “That looks pretty cool. I could do this.” I talked to some several of the nurses throughout my pregnancy, culling information about how they had gotten into the field. One in particular woman, Lecia, said that she had been an investment banker before deciding that at age 35, that she wanted to be a nurse. At the time, she was married and had two small children. Still, she went back to school and became a nurse. I thought, “Oh, I could totally do that!”

So from there, I started the process of visiting schools, collecting transcripts, fulfilling pre-requisites, and submitting applications. Throughout my education, teachers always wrote on my report cards that I was a great student, but that I needed to slow down and stop rushing. That is advice that I have had a hard time following and my foray into nursing school was no exception. I see that I completely jumped into the whole thing without fully knowing what I was getting into.
In any event, I went through my pre-requisites, I agonized over A&P, as I’m sure you recall. I found that I still enjoyed being in school. I liked being a student, learning something, talking it over with my peers. I made it through first and second semester and submitted my nursing school application. I got in last spring and opted to take the summer off to have one last family filled summer before giving myself over to two years continuous years of school.
School started and I threw myself into it the way I always do. I completely removed myself from all forms of social interaction. School became all consuming. The grading system in nursing school is pretty brutal. Anything less than a 70% is a failing grade. A 94% is the low end of an A-. My grades, of course, were spot on. I have always been the type that bellyaches about how I totally didn’t study for a test, how I’m going to absolutely fail it, blah, blah, blah. Then I get 105 points on an exam. Yeah, this time was no exception either.

I was a little more way through the semester when three things happened:
1. I had just taken an exam that I went into feeling as though I would do alright. I came out of it thinking, “I completely jacked that test up– and not in a good way.” I left the lecture hall and just thought, “You know what? I don’t even care. I just don’t care.” I had called a friend who is about to graduate nursing school this winter and we commiserated on how stressful our lives had become. She said how she had wanted to quit school every single day the past two years, but “[I] have never wanted anything more badly than to be a nurse.” Hmmmm. I chewed on that the rest of the night, but knew full well that I just didn’t feel the same way.

2. That same week, my instructor, now keenly aware of my school related neuroses, pulls me aside and says, “I graded your exam. You got a 100 out of 105.” Okay. . . . . I mean, seriously, I said, “Okay,” as though he said, “Your shoe’s untied.”

3. That week-end, I went to bed around 10pm and woke up at 1:00am. My mind was cycling at top speed and my stomach was doing a slow, roiling burn. I sat down on the couch in a sleep deprived daze. I started to put some pieces together about school, my attitude, my emotions, my place in the world, and how I saw myself.

And here’s where the Aha! moment kicked in — I didn’t want to be a nurse. There it was. It was like this stone I had been carrying in my stomach and I finally coughed it up. I’m not going to say the clouds parted, the Hallelujah chorus kicked in and angels appeared from on high, because that totally didn’t happen. What happened was, in that moment, I grew up.

When they say growing up is hard to do, they ain’t never lied! What followed from that moment was a number of discussions with God, with myself, with DH about what to do next. Was I really going to walk away? Was I going to stick out the rest of the semester? Was I just needing a break from the stress? What am I going to do next? See, school has always been the one thing I could call myself good at. I’m a marginal dancer, I can kinda-sorta play some sports. I know enough French to get through an afternoon if I ever find myself in Paris (one can hope, right?). But school was where I was the master. To walk away from it? Could I really do that? Yes, I could. So, I did.
I wish it was as easy as I’m making it sound, but this is an abridged version of events and I’ve got to rouse the troops. There’s not much more to tell, anyway. And to answer the question, “What did DH say?” — DH is/was/has been/will continue to be supportive of me, though I think it’s because he subscribes to the “Happy Wife, Happy Life,” theory of relationships (kidding, kidding).

And as for what I’m going to do now? Well firstly, I’m going to slow. . .down. . .and then, I’m going to do a whole lot of nothing. Or as close to nothing as one can do when you’re a wife and mother. There’ll probably a bottle of wine and straw involved. . .
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IN: ON: November 25, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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How About a Little Soap and Water?

So, here’s the situation. There’s this woman that I know. Her son and Co were in the same pre-school class last year. She also is a regular at the YMCA and we use the same babysitter. Let’s call this woman “Sue”.
Sue and I aren’t friends in the traditional sense, but we are certainly acquaintances. She always speaks, inquiring after the girls and our week-end plans. We engage in the usual mom banter that occurs during those quick minutes of pre-school drop-off and pick-up. At the Y, we may have our step benches near one another and catch up before the multiple glute lifts and three-knee repeaters rob us of our ability to talk. She’s a very nice person, and while either one of us may offer up a, “We should grab coffee one morning,” I think we both know that it’s an illusory invite, and not a real one.
So anyway, I was at the Y the other day for this step aerobics class and I saw Sue there. On my way into the step room, Sue was on her way out, her large red and blue handbag slung over her shoulder. She tossed off a “Be right back,” in my direction as I went in. I dropped my gear, set up my bench and decided that my morning two glasses of water and cup of coffee had caught up with me. A bathroom break was in order.
The closest bathroom near the step room has only two stalls in it, one of which was occupied when I entered. I see a red and blue handbag peeking out from under the door of the the
occupied stall.
Now, I have always been a conversationalist, but in public bathrooms, I just don’t see the need to strike up a dialogue. You handle your business, I’ll handle mine and you can tell me all about the season finale of DWTS when we come out.
The person in the stall next to me flushes, picks up her bag, steps out of the stall and leaves. She left the bathroom. Without washing her hands. Didn’t even turn the faucet and pass her fingertips under the water. I say “she” and “her”, but we all know who it was!
In this day and age of H1n1, Avian flu, and who knows what else, you have GOT to wash your hands. Sure, there is now a Purell dispenser in just about every major retailer, children’s play area, and so on, but hand washing is key. So I wash my hands – with soap, of course and use my elbow to depress the paper towel lever. I then use that same paper towel to open the door to the bathroom because Little Miss Pee-Pee Hands just touched it.
Back in the step room, turns out Sue is about a bench behind me, her red and blue handbag holding her place. Sue comes over and starts talking about how tough the last step class we shared had been. She and I aren’t the type of acquaintances where either one of us would put a hand on the other’s shoulder or arm to emphasize a point, but she does gesture with her hands while she talks. So, of course, I can’t take my eyes off of her hands. All I could think was that little microbes were shouting “Bonzai!!” as they parachuted off her hands and onto the various surfaces in the vicinity — like my skin.
I’m hoping that I don’t have another experience like that. I’m pretty non-confrontational and I’m not very smooth, so getting in her face about not washing or hands or pulling out my own Purell and offering her some were never options. I am curious, however, what you would have done in that situation. Put yourself in my work-out shoes and let me know.
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IN: ON: November 21, 2009 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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