Monday, November 30, 2009

Oi Vay!

Oy Vay! (Oy Vey!)

1: Used when frustrated.
2: Used when anoyed by other people fighting or arguing and it becomes a big mess.

I organized a surprise 30th birthday party for Big V this past Wednesday. Like an uber-insecure psycho girlfriend I ganked his phone while he was in the shower and wrote down as many names and numbers as I could. (This took several times, since he has 300 contacts but only takes five minute showers.) Awkwardly, I called each one of his friends and invited them to the big shindig. I thought maybe, just maybe, if we were lucky, we'd have close to twenty people in attendance. We had over forty! Trust me when I say it was AWESOME to see V's expression when he saw so many of his friends there to help him celebrate. He's one of those guys who has friends of all types and in all different circles, so it was an excellent, if not eclectic, mix of personalities.

Later, V's mom would find out he had a wonderful surprise party with his friends. To this she would say, and, yes, I am quoting: "Why didn't you invite me?" To which he replied, "How could I invite you to something I didn't know was happening? It was a surprise party. I wasn't in charge of the guest list." You might think that this is true... but, alas, as she explained, he really was in charge of the guest list: "Well, when you saw I wasn't there you should've called me."

[Note to Self: If my son finds himself thirty years old, surrounded by his friends at a bar on his birthday and he immediately thinks, "My mom isn't here! I need to call her right now!" then I have failed as a mother.]

Thanksgiving was a busy day, as it usually is with most families. Luckily, V's family celebrates the holiday months in advance... ok, weeks... my point is it's done and over with by the time the real holiday arrives. We managed to eat our way through the day and rest accordingly. V's mom would see him the next day and describe how upset she was that he didn't text message her Happy Thanksgiving. (There would be tears involved.)

So, this holiday season I am thankful for a mother who lets me be an adult. For a mother who enjoys my company - but never demands it. For a mother who isn't steps away from being instituionalized.

(If it wasn't so gosh darn irritating I'd tell you about how V's mom is attempting to impose a "minimum every two week visit." Like that one is going over well with V.... he hasn't, uh, stopped talking about it...)

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

A little worried...

Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy. What have I done?

Tonight I have planned a surprise birthday gathering for Big V. Let the anxieties begin:

Will there be enough people?
Will there not be enough people?
Will the food be okay?
Will there be enough food?
What if there's not enough food?
Will people drink too much? I don't need a bar fight...
Will they think the location is lame?
Should I explain this is the bar that sponsers his plethora of sports leagues throughout the year?
Will the cake be there?
Why did I even let that lady talk me into getting a cake? We don't eat cake. V rarely eats cake. He won't care if there's a cake.
What if no one eats the cake and we're forced to take the darn thing home?
What if I can't get my hair done?
What if I look frumpy? I feel incredibly frumpy lately.
What if I get really tired? I'm sleep deprived, you know. It's not going to look cool if I'm yawning in the corner.
Why am I spending money on this?
Shouldn't I save my money for Christmas?
Why was he born at this time of the year?
What if I have no money for Christmas?
What if something happens and Grandma can't watch the kids?
Why am I so worried about this?

Friday, November 20, 2009

Put it on the List.

Voicemail message to me from the Bean:

"Hi, this is your daughter. Uh, I just wanted to call you and remind you to get toilet paper because, uh, I just urinated and there is no toilet paper so I had to wipe my butt with cotton balls. Yeah. So, uh, please pick up some toilet paper. Thank you."

Monday, November 16, 2009

Regular Recognition

This morning, the lady at Starbucks kindof, sortof recognized me! I can feel it... in no time at all I will officially become a "Regular." Being kindof, sortof recognized made my morning trip to the office just THAT much better!

I've always wanted to be a Regular. To be known as "you know... the lady that comes in and..." ever since I worked at the bank right out of highschool. Of course, it was easy to figure out the names, but we still referred to our fondest customers in terms like "the lady with the smelly money" and "the guy who insists on signing in red" and "the idiot who is always waiting in the parking lot on Saturday morning before we open."

Then I got a job at Subway. There was "double meat cold cut combo" guy and "the chick who has to have her sub cut in thirds," not to mention "the Tuesday lady that pays in silver dollars."

The problem has always been that although I am a creature of habit, I don't do enough of one particular thing long enough to become a Regular. I tried once, a few years back. I was bound and determined to become a Local Regular. I ate corned beef hash, two eggs - sunny side up and a piece of whole wheat toast for lunch at this dive diner every day for three weeks before I gave up. I should've known it would be virtually impossible to achieve since you have to do the same thing in the same town for at least twenty years before you become a Local. And I didn't care for corned beef hash enough to commit to it for twenty years. But I digress. We're off the hash on on to coffee. Which is ironic in itself, because I don't even like coffee. Don't worry though, this still works because Starbucks has tea. Plus, I lowered the bar; Starbucks has a drive through and is located off the highway exit so there's no pressure to be a local. I can just be a regular.

And so it came to pass that I decided I would order the same thing every day, at the same time every day, in my efforts to become a Starbucks regular. I began my quest the day I returned to work from maternity leave. I figure this was my subconscious telling me that leaving my precious baby boy would be too hard so I should soften the blow by driving to a little window in the hopes of being recognized -- much like my precious baby boy now recognizes me by smiling when I talk to him. Sure, the barista wouldn't coo and flail her arms about, but she would hand me a warm cup of chai tea latte. It kind of balances out.

After two weeks of committment (and a cost of $4.17 daily) I drove up to the window and handed over my plastic. The girl took my card, paused and asked, "Didn't you come through already?" I assured her I did not, to which she replied, "Well, some lady who looks just like you came through earlier and ordered the same thing. I was surprised to see you because I thought you had already been through once!" She knew me! Well, kindof, sortof. I'm almost there...

Friday, November 6, 2009

I got dressed in the dark today. Not really. The light was on. In fact, it was an annoyingly bright light. But it was 5:30 in the morning. And it makes me feel better if I say it was dark. Honestly, I thought I looked good at the time. But now, my black pants with brown shoes just really ain't cutting it. What the hell was I thinking? And now, I'm leaving work to go to not one, but TWO doctor's appointments. There is no time to stop at home and switch shoes. Oh, no. I am about to feel the natural consequences of my decision. I shall be forced to get out of my car, walk across the parking lot, into the clinic, ride the elevator and wait in the waiting room for everyone to see... not once, but twice. At two different clinics.

Am I worried about infectious diseases? Am I scared I'll succumb to the horrors of the dreaded swine flu? Heck no! I'm terrified of "the look." You know, that one the pretty, put together mom gives that says, "Oh, that's too bad... you tried really hard to look all classy and put together; to give the appearance that you have it all together as a mom, but alas, you have failed. Better luck next time."

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Spending Freeze, What?!

It's official. I have re-entered the workforce after my lovely (if not extremely painful) Maternity Leave. Let me tell you, c-sections are NOT for the faint of heart. It wouldn't have been too bad if I could have gone without the raging infection and incredible acid-like rash covering the majority of my body. Weeks of intense antibiotics later I'm work ready.

I came back to the office expecting complete mass chaos. Nothing of the sort. It's relatively painless. (Although I am comparing to the weeks of hell I endured recently... anything was better than that.) I did, however, walk into what has been defined as a "Spending Freeze."

Budgets are a funny thing: they only work on paper... unless the people in charge are determined to actually follow it. Trust me, I know this because I use budgets in my personal life. If I budget $172 for groceries I must remain disciplined to not exceed $172 in order for the budget to work. If I spend, oh, let's say $514 I may find a deficit. Funny how that happens.

Happens in personal life as well as at work. So, spending freeze it is.

I learned this when I walked to the supply closet to get an envelope to mail out correspondence. Except there were no envelopes. Perhaps they were relocated, I thought. Upon attempting to seek them out I learned that we had no money to order supplies. We were in a "spending freeze."

"But we have no envelopes."

"I know."

"But it's early November... we have two full months until the new year."

"I know."

"But how are we expected to mail correspondence."

"We all have to make sacrifices."

"I get that.... but mailing envelopes?! We do a lot of mailing around here."

"The economy is bad. Like I said, we all have to make sacrifices. Oh, by the way, we're expecting quotes to come in for new flooring for the office. The carpet is looking kind of worn and I was thinking that laminate flooring would look sharp...."

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

I got a voicemail the other day from the hospital saying ‘since you’re the contact on record we just want you to know your Dad can get a Cov...