August 2009

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Home From Vacation

August 29, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 1 comment

I’m home and partially settled from a week-long vacay to see my parents in Las Vegas. It wasn’t as much of a vacation as I had hoped it would be because I still had to tend to work issues that arose in my absence, but nevertheless, it gave me a much-needed break from the daily grind. The down-side of being around my parents for a whole week is that my daughter is now extremely displeased living life without a constant stream of treats, toys, and new diversions around every corner. She ate more ice cream in one week than she normally eats in 2 months, and brought home several obnoxious (read: noisy) toys that she adores. And really, I can’t gripe at my parents for how they indulge her. They absolutely adore her, and she’s my dad’s youngest grandchild and only granddaughter, and my mom’s only grandchild (Dad was previously married). They also live thousands of miles away and see her once every few months. They all three get so much joy out of it that I can’t complain.

Aside from watching my child get spoiled, I basically spent the week eating, hanging out with my parents, eating, seeing my siblings and nephews, eating, and…well, that’s it. Oh, and I played some nickel poker while I was there. And lost $20. Really, my life is terribly glamorous and exciting. But these days, low-key vacations are about all I can handle.

Anyways, that’s where I’ve been, and that’s why it’s been so quiet around these here parts. Now I just need to finish unpacking, which, given the amount of gear we lugged to Vegas should take me roughly 3 months.

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People Against Reading

August 20, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 1 comment

Overheard at the adjacent table at dinner tonight complete with the running snarky commentary in my brain:

Twenty Something Girl at Next Table, sounding aghast: So, Susan and I were hanging out with them and, like, ALL they were talking about was BOOKS they had read. It’s like all they DO is read, or something. Who has time for that?! Why would anyone even want to DO that?!

OneShoe, sobbing: Oh, for the days when I could read leisurely! Why, cruel world, WHY DID YOU TAKE AWAY MY TIME TO READ?! Oh, wait, I had a baby of my own volition. Never mind.

Girl at Next Table: I mean, it’s not like I have anything against reading, or anything…

OneShoe: Oh no, certainly don’t associate yourself with People AGAINST Reading. I’ve heard of them. They’re like Mothers Against Drunk Driving. Only dumber and more pointless. And without the pamphlets. Because they don’t, you know, READ. GAH.

Girl at Next Table: It’s just that I prefer to do, you know, like, something mindless, like watch TV and relax, or something. Reading is boring.

OneShoe: Mindless. You said it, I didn’t have to.

Girl at Next Table: And then they got on my case and kept telling me I should read more. *laughs* Can you believe that?

Guy at Next Table with her: Reading is stupid.

OneShoe: Oh what a relief to hear your husband is just as articulate as you are. Please excuse my keening wail as I lament the state of society. *facepalm*

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Let me state for the record that I know some people don’t like to read for leisure, and there’s nothing wrong with that (although I can’t honestly say I understand it). I do, however, reserve the right to snark at those who express active disdain for reading and act like ridiculous twits. Oh, and before anybody gets on my case about being classist and maybe these weren’t very well-educated people who hadn’t learned the value of reading, let me assure you that girlfriend had a rock the size of a grapefruit on her ring finger, and we saw them hop into a Mercedes SUV when they left the restaurant. So like I said, ridiculous twits.

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Being a RESPONSIBLE parent as opposed to being a schmuck

August 18, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 7 comments

Rant ahead, consider yourself warned.

This afternoon, I took my Sweet Girl to one of our local malls to play in the soft play area with some friends. Some of you may know that I LOATHE those places with every fiber of my being, because they’re crowded, probably covered in a fine film of toddler fecal matter, and they are a magnet for irresponsible parents who need a place to let their children run amok with minimal supervision. But we go despite my reservations because it makes her SO happy, and it helps her burn energy.

Near the end of today’s play session, my girl was at the top of a soft play slide, roughly 4 feet tall. I was sitting on the bench right behind her watching her play. Several boys climbed UP the slide (which in our household is verboten and will remain so until she is able to understand that you only do that when other children aren’t trying to go DOWN the slide). There isn’t much room at the top of the slide. It suddenly got very crowded with the boys clambering and pushing each other and everyone around them at the top of the slide. Do you see where this is going? One of them pushed Charlotte. My stomach dropped (and is dropping right now as I type this), and I jumped up as fast as I could to try to catch her. I couldn’t get there in time, and she went backwards off the top of the slide and fell on her head/neck/shoulders on the ground (thankfully, mercifully a relatively cushioned surface). I can hardly contain the tears and I’m still shaking as I think about how gut-wrenching that was, how horrible to watch this happen to your child and know the possibility for serious injury while being completely incapable of doing anything to stop this. To those parents who have bravely watched their children go through much, much worse and still manage to get out of bed every day, I cannot offer enough of my admiration for your courage. Naturally, I scooped up her sobbing, shaking, sore little body, and clutched her to me alternately whispering soothing words and asking her if she was okay. She kept telling me no. Cue stomach dropping a little further.

In the meantime, the mother of the boy who pushed her (Mom A) had been sitting just a few feet from me. This was one of the boys who had been running around this tiny play area the whole time we were there. This was one of the boys whose parents you couldn’t identify because no one was actively paying attention to him or trying to get him to stop acting like a damn fool. This was one of the boys who was veeeery close to being altogether too big for the play area. Immediately after the fall, this mother started yelling at the boy. She told him he should be watching out for the littler kids. She hollered at him to come sit by her. The mother of one of the other boys had been sitting next to her chit-chatting and she grabbed her son as well (Mom B). As I was anxiously soothing my girl, Mom A asked me if she was okay. All I could say in that moment where I felt only anxiety for my daughter’s well-being and anger at the nature of this accident was, “I sure hope so.” Mom A walked away and sat down with her son.

Here’s where it gets really good. Mom A didn’t apologize. Mom A didn’t insist that her son apologize. Mom A didn’t find out for sure if Sweet Girl was okay. Mom A didn’t speak another word to me in the 10 minutes that she sat there after the accident. Mom B, whose son was also part of the melee, didn’t say a word to her son. Mom B didn’t say a word to me. In fact Mom B wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

I. Am. Furious. What I wanted to explain to this mother, and what I didn’t have time to tell her is that while she was busy yelling at her son and blaming him for what happened, SHE is ultimately responsible for monitoring his behavior and REMOVING HIM from a situation that gets out of hand BEFORE someone gets hurt. Don’t yell at your kid because you were too busy talking to your friend to actually PARENT him. He’s a kid. Kids get rowdy. Kids don’t have a great sense of knowing when to calm down. It’s especially hard for them if their parents don’t set and uphold reasonable boundaries. BUT IT’S PARENTS THAT ARE SUPPOSED TO KEEP THE KIDS FROM KILLING EACH OTHER. Also, what the hell kind of parent doesn’t teach their kid to apologize for hurting someone else?! Maybe she was terrified of what my response would be; maybe she felt guilty. Hard to know since she didn’t bother to say. Either way, that doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t have owned up to her mistakes and effing apologized and asked her son to apologize as well. Accidents happen, we ALL know that accidents happen, but my kid could have broken her freakin’ neck falling 4 feet, and she didn’t have the courage? decency? chutzpah? to say she was sorry? WTF, people? What happened to people having an ounce of human decency and taking, oh what’s it called again….oh yeah RESPONSIBILITY for their actions?!

Yeah, I’m gonna need a stiff drink to calm my nerves AND get me off my soapbox.

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Word Play

August 18, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 3 comments

Scene: Doing somersaults in Sweet Girl’s room today

SG: I’m going to be a somersault.
One Shoe: You mean you’re going to do a somersault?
SG: No. I’m going to BE a somersault. And you’re going to be a somerpepper.

I ADORE how her mind works.

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An oldy but a goody: Hair Removal Confession

August 16, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 2 comments

Based on the stats, it seems y’all most appreciate the posts wherein I describe my humiliating moments. Thanks? I think? For those of you who don’t know, I blogged privately for six years before launching this blog, and I decided to pull a post from that old blog that I thought you might appreciate. Some of you will remember it and cringe; others who haven’t yet been exposed to my uncanny knack for injuring myself will cringe, then probably point and laugh. Enjoy!

Hair Removal Confession (Originally posted March 2008)

I was planning to go for a swim today at the JCC, but once it started snowing, I decided that the last thing I wanted to do was strip down and throw my lily-white, shivering self into a pool of water measuring less than 85 degrees. However, in anticipation of swimming, I made it a point to engage in all of the requisite hair removal activities that women in our culture are subjected to. Including, you know…ahem, trimming and whatnot. And honestly, I don’t mind doing those things too much. Unless something goes horribly awry. This morning’s rituals were uneventful, but it did bring to mind a certain morning not long ago that didn’t end so happily. It was right before my daughter was born, and I decided that in anticipation of childbirth, I needed to make sure things were, shall we say, manageable in the baby-birthing region. I figured there was going to be BLOOD! GORE! AMNIOTIC FLUID! And I didn’t want things to be unnecessarily messy. Now, keep in mind that I was eight months pregnant, looking more like Melville’s white whale than not. Keep in mind that I also couldn’t actually make visual contact with the anatomical area in question. Keep in mind that I had scissors and pregnancy brain.

Initially things went along quite well (although in retrospect, I’m not sure how I know this since I couldn’t see what the devil I was doing), but then came the fateful snip that took with it a significant chunk of skin. There was that stomach-dropping moment when I realized what had happened but my brain hadn’t registered pain yet. Then there was nothing but blood, screaming, and searing agony. My poor husband rushed into the bathroom when he heard the shrieking and streams of choice words, thinking that I was giving birth right there in the shower. Instead, I had to explain to him, between staunching the bleeding and moans of agony, that my own idiocy had resulted in a painful, bleeding crotch wound. He made the wise decision to simply nod and ask if I needed anything rather than invoke further wrath by laughing out loud at me, but I’m certain I saw a smirk on his face as he left the room. Once the bleeding stopped, I decided things down there were good enough, and I had enough sense to quit before doing any further damage. What’s worse is that once I did give birth a short while later, I KNOW everyone in the birthing room HAD to have seen it, but between contractions and trying to forcefully eject a baby from my girly bits, I didn’t exactly have all the time in the world to explain myself. Nothing like a little private humiliation gone public to keep me humble.

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Loving Thy Neighbor

August 14, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | No comments

Dearest Neighbor,

In most ways you really are quite endearing. You are elderly and sweet. You adore my daughter. You were the only neighbor to bring a little housewarming present when we moved in. You water our garden when we’re out of town. What’s not to love about you?

Oh, right. That thing you do. With the lawn-mowing and the leaf-blowing. Simultaneously. At 7:00 in the morning. For the love of all that is decent and good in this world, do you think you could try to hold off until at least 8? Or even better, never? Because then in addition to all the wonderful neighborly things you do, you would also be helping to hide the fact that we’re the only house on the street who hasn’t mowed their lawn in *cough* months. Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

Your Neighborly Shoe

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On Whining

August 12, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 2 comments

My daughter has entered week 5 of Operation Whine Incessantly Until Mama Sticks Forks In Her Ears And Twists Them Repeatedly. I don’t know why she’s doing it. Perhaps that last molar that broke the skin some weeks ago is still causing her grief. Perhaps she’s testing the boundaries. Again. And again and again and again. Perhaps she’s just feeling discombobulated. All I know is that it’s making everyone in our family miserable. Except for the cats. Because one of the cats is always miserable, and the other one has popcorn for brains and can’t be made miserable even when you hogtie her so that she stops chasing random small objects around the house so we can all get some damn sleep already. Not that I would ever hogtie my cat. Because I don’t actually know how to hogtie anything. If you happen to know would you mind leaving detailed instructions in the comments? I mean, just for hypothetical situations, of course.

So back to my kid, who will shortly be enrolled in yodeling instruction. She’s miserable; we’re miserable; everyone’s on edge, and we’ve all spent way more time tantruming than what is normal and natural. Especially me. Since according to Doctors Without Licenses, or some other such reputable establishment, the norm for someone pushing 30 is roughly two throw-yourself-to-the-floor-and-kick-and-cry-until-someone-gives-you-your-way tantrums per day, right? And each morning we start out happy and optimistic and great until whine after whine after whine my patience level plummets into nonexistence and we fall into an awful cycle of her whining and falling to pieces and me losing my shit in a totally undignified manner which only causes her to get more upset. Which then makes me feel guilty. None of you could POSSIBLY relate to this, right?

After all this time as her mama, I KNOW that she responds better to frustrating situations when I make light of them and work to get a smile out of her rather than get frustrated and annoyed. I KNOW that if I do this, she’ll usually snap out of it, and we’ll all just go along our merry way. And under the best circumstances, I can hold it together like that for days on end, even if she’s having an especially long rough patch. But after several weeks of this and the added good times of some PMS to boot, I fail at doing what I know will diffuse the situation and what I know is best for all of us. Can I just tell you what a hard thing that is to say? Especially out here in the big wide open internet where anybody might see it and, heaven forbid, judge me for it? But there it is, in all its truth. I fail at acting in ways that are the most beneficial for my family sometimes. We all do, but oh, how I hate that. I hate to fail at anything, let alone failing to give my daughter room to have bad days without mama getting all freaked out, too. And really, although I don’t think I’m a terrible parent, I do think there are parenting skills I can definitely work on. For my daughter’s sake, for my own sake, for our family’s sake.

Let me tell you what I’m thinking. When I first started a job at a local hospital some years ago, I made myself a set of notecards on which I wrote down critical information for my job: elevator passcodes, what types of patients (oncology, med-surg, OB-GYN, etc.) were housed in which wings, doctors’ names and pager numbers, nurses who could make my life hell, all kinds of random stuff. I kept those notecards, held together with a metal binder ring, with me in my lab coat pocket AT ALL TIMES. And I used them constantly until one day I realized that everything on those cards had become second nature to me. Of course I would never suggest that motherhood could be so simply summed up on a set of cards, but there are things I forget, things I need to be reminded to do. So I’m making myself a set of cards to keep with me as we go about our day. Reminders of things we can do when we get bored. Activities we can do around the house when it’s crappy outside. Reminders about how best to handle stressful situations with her. Reminders about things I want to teach her and things I think she needs to know. Does it seem a little neurotic to do this? Maybe. Does it feel necessary for me to make the effort? Absolutely. I’ll let you know how it goes.

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Not Your Average PMS Post: NEW! With BONUS TIPS for MEN!

August 10, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 6 comments

Oy vey, has this past week been a roller coaster ride. And not one of those fun ones that you want to go on again and again, but the terrifying one that makes you scream like a little girl and then vomit on the sixteen year old pimple-faced cotton candy vendor’s shoes immediately upon exit.

I’ll be honest, it’s largely fueled by an egregiously defiant and raging case of PMS that won’t quit. (Sorry, gentlemen readers, but it had to be said, and if that made you uncomfortable, well you may want to skip the rest of this post.) My poor, poor husband came home to hear me tell Arch Support over the phone “I just want to THROTTLE SOMEONE. Then go to sleep. And maybe cry a little bit, but MOSTLY THROTTLE SOMEONE.” No, he didn’t run out the door, but he did gently question me from a safe distance before finally taking off his shoes and entering the house.

And my first thought was that I should just stay silent about the shitstorm that’s been raging in and around me. There’s no need to share this, or bring anyone else into the fray. No one REALLY needs to know.

Then I thought, to hell with that! This is my life, and I should be honest and tell people what’s up. That is, after all, why I’m writing here, right (and hopefully why you’re reading)? I don’t need to write about it for sympathy, or to make my readers miserable, too (believe me, one of us feeling this way is one too many). I need to write about it to say hey, I’m human, I suffer from the human condition, and I get irritable and not so nice when my body starts mixing its toxic monthly hormonal cocktail. We all have our problems, this is one of mine. Period. (Okay, that pun was truly unintentional, but it was too bad to delete. And it is one of the first things that’s made me laugh in several days.)

Although PMS is the butt of many a joke (and really, when you’re dealing with a body that works EVERY DAMN MONTH to get you pregnant, then throws a biological temper tantrum when you DON’T actually get pregnant, oh and because it’s REALLY vindictive it then makes you BLEED for a week to boot, then starts right back at it again, what can you do but try to joke about it), it can make a woman feel just thoroughly miserable. So, ladies, if you’re PMS-ing, eat something delicious. Husbands, boyfriends, partners, and gentlemen, cut us some slack already, will ya? Oh, and stay out of our way. But don’t be emotionally distant because we need the support. But don’t say anything stupid. And don’t say anything too smart for that matter. Just don’t talk. But be supportive. Silently. And don’t try to hug us. Unless we want you to. Which we’ll tell you. Telepathically. And buy lots of our craving foods for us. But don’t store them in the house before PMS hits because they won’t sound good to us. Just show up with them as soon as the first twinge of irritability hits. Which should be roughly 25-35 days after the last twinge of irritability hit. Really, this is not that hard; I don’t know why you get so cranky.

So here’s what I want to know. How’s your past week been? Has it been craptacular, too, for reasons hormonal or otherwise? I want to hear about it. Link me to your posts, or write about it in the comments. Has this been the best week of your life? Well, I want to hear about it, too, because if so we need to celebrate with a virtual martini. Lord knows I could use one.

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The Best Way to Use Vinegar In Your House (aside from cooking)

August 5, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 4 comments

I’ve been working on a couple of substantial posts about a number of Really Serious Issues which have been weighing heavily on me for some weeks. I promise those posts are forthcoming, but in the meantime, I wanted to share hands down the number one housekeeping tip I know (trust me, I don’t know many, so when I’ve got one to share, it’s usually pretty good).

You know that musty smell that your towels get after you’ve used them for a while? Those of you living in drier climates probably don’t have this problem, but those of us who live where it’s humid run into this constantly. The towels will smell fine when they come out of the dryer, but as soon as you use them, the musty smell comes back. It’s some kind of mildew (blech), and the ONLY way I have ever gotten rid of the smell completely was by using vinegar when I wash them. A couple of cupfuls of white vinegar (which I buy in 2-gallon jugs from Costco) in the compartment where your detergent goes on a hot wash will absolutely get rid of the smell. I thought I was going to have to pitch a whole set of towels because they smelled SO terrible, but this completely cured them. You can follow them up with a detergent wash if you like, but this gets them pretty blasted clean. Economical, environmentally safe, non-toxic, it doesn’t get any better!

Any other housekeeping tips y’all want to share while we’re at it? Although my towels are clean, the rest of my house is a wreck, so have at it!

Edited: For the record, washing towels in vinegar does not yield towels that smell like pickles. They just wind up smelling clean.

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Letting it all hang out

August 3, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 10 comments

Dear Speedo,

We’ve known each other for years, haven’t we? I’ve worn your suits since I started swimming lessons at the tender age of 5. I’ve trusted you to hold all my bits and parts in their proper place since before I had bits and parts to speak of, and even after maternity (and gravity) wreaked havoc on the geography of those very same bits and parts. Which makes your betrayal today all the more hurtful. I can hardly understand where we went wrong. Oh, SURE you don’t know what I’m talking about. By all means, let me elaborate.

The husband and I took the small one to the pool at the local gym this afternoon. (This is the gym where I’ve had a membership for many months and only rarely make an appearance. By my reckoning, today’s swim cost us roughly $100 per person. Based on what subsequently happened, I think anyone who was there today ought to have paid me for the little show I put on.)

I swam a few laps, splashed around with my daughter, noticed the kiddie pool was significantly warmer than the lap pool and thanked the inventor of chlorine, same old same old. I also happened to notice that I was getting the eyeball from a few other swimmers. Speedo, I wouldn’t say that I’m an unattractive woman, but this did strike me as a little strange. After an hour, we headed back to the family locker room and I happened to catch a glimpse of my back side in the mirror. My Speedo swimming suit is black, but I could see that part of it decidedly wasn’t: a 12 inch wide oval-shaped expanse that stretched from the top to the bottom of my ass. Please find the conversation that ensued between the husband and I below.

OneShoeOff: WTF is that on my swimming suit?

The Husband, poking at the spot: I was just wondering the same thing.

OneShoeOff: Did I get something on it?

The Husband: Um…I don’t think so. Uh, honey, I think the fabric is coming off your swimming suit.

OneShoeOff: No, no, I’m pretty sure I must have scraped it on the tiles in the pool. (This, Speedo, is what we call denial.)

The Husband, poking some more and removing more fabric: Yeah, I’m pretty sure the fabric is coming off your swimming suit.

OneShoeOff: So, wait, why is it turning soooo white…oh…no.

The Husband: It’s see-through.

And then, in that moment I realized that I was looking at my own buttcrack and a sizable expanse of both lily-white cheeks THROUGH my swimming suit because the fabric was worn almost into non-existence. In a flash each trip across the pool deck, each freestyle lap I swam with my fanny held high, each time I had bent over to help my daughter in the kiddie pool came back to me as I realized I may as well have not been wearing anything at all over my behind.

Despite the wealth of irate letters you may receive in the coming days from the lifeguards, swimmers, and sauna and hot tub users at my gym seeking compensation for the retinal burns that resulted from a glimpse of my glowing white tooshie, please accept my heartfelt gratitude for your part in keeping my life interesting through poor quality control.

Sincerely,
OneShoeOff

P.S. No, I will not be providing photographic documentation.

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