My new favorite article of clothing

So, in my last post (two weeks ago, yes I am aware of that) I alluded to the fact that I have a new job. That's right. I have left the creepy confines of traditional retail pharmacy. I have come out from behind the counter. No longer will I have to direct people to the hair dryers or bug spray. There will be no more arguments with people who are pissed at me because their doctor's incorrectly told them that a certain drug was on our $4 list. I'm out. I could have done cartwheels as I walked through those sliding doors for the last time. My time in that particular job was a roller coaster ride. One day I was being recognized for being new talent in the district, the next I was getting written up for an anonymous blog (moment of silence). One day I'm being told I'm a phenomenal pharmacist, the next I'm being threatened with a write up because I had a woman, who threatened to meet me in the parking lot and seriously injure me, escorted out of the store. (Yep. Boss gave her $100 for her trouble.) But anyway, I digress. The important thing is, I'm out of there.

I began the job search several months ago. Husband and I knew that the right job was out there, I was prepared to suck it up at the Shop 'N MakeMeWanttoVomitattheProspectofWorkingAllDay for as long as I needed until I found the right job, or at least until Boss From Hell fired me for something fun like not filling a forged script.

There was always one job that I have wanted, ever since my last year of pharm school. One morning, I'm perusing job openings, and there it is, the holy grail of jobs, at least for me. I swear, tears formed in my eyes. I felt giddy like I've never been giddy before. Guess what? I got that job. Holy crap, I got that job. And you know what? I love it. I love it SO much. Being a pharmacist is fun again. It's like redemption for all I went through at the Buy 'N MakeMeFatBecauseI'mEatingMyTroublesAwayOnAisle9.

This brings me to my new favorite article of clothing. I have a new lab coat. A fancy one. One of those that is similar to what physicians wear. I feel all warm and tingly when I have it on. Well, that's a bit extreme, but I do catch myself watching my reflection in windows and doors. Hee hee. It's the small things.

And in case you're wondering? I think Tim Gunn would be very pleased with my selection of lab coats.

My Failings as a Mother

Rain, rain, go away. Today Wee One's class was supposed to go on a field trip. The class was supposed to go on this same field trip last week. Due to bus issues, the trip was rescheduled for today. Little did we know that today would hold record breaking monsoons (well, maybe not that much, but you know how much I like to exaggerate). Rain=no trip to the pumpkin patch (again) for Wee One's class. Cue grumpy and disgruntled three year olds. Cue teachers screaming for xanax and booze.

When I walk in to pick him up this afternoon, I felt a chill in the air. I swear I could hear a combination of the Jaws theme and the Twilight Zone song playing in the background.

"Mrs. Teacher wants to talk with you," one of the teacher's aides tells me.

Gulp.

Mrs. Teacher is the sweetest person. Seriously. Mrs Teacher does not look happy.

It appears that my child has had a rough day. It appears that my child was a demon today. Why do I feel like I'm the one getting sent to the principal's office? Because that's exactly what I feel like. There was hitting, there was the throwing of toys, there was lying, there was whining. He was a regular Maury Povich episode today, minus the whole Baby Daddy nonsense, of course.

Discipline is hard for me. I don't ever want to see my child upset or crying or not 100% happy. Yes, I am a very unrealistic person. Don't get me wrong, I do discipline my child, I just hate every minute of it. It's hard for me to stick to my guns. I melt into a big puddle of mommy goo when I see that little lip poke out or those big tears start to form. I know that in the end, it's the best thing for him. If he's not disciplined things are going to be much more difficult for him when he's older. And it's not like he's a bad kid, he just had a bad day. But I tell you one thing, I don't like to see the regularly sweet as sugar Mrs. Teacher mad/upset/having a bad day as well.

The pumpkin patch trip has been re-rescheduled for Thursday. Please, please, please God let this one go off without a hitch.

The State of My Uterus

Uterus. Say that word over and over again a few times. It's kind of an ugly word. Uterus, uterus, uterus. What's the plural? Uteri? Uterii? Uteruses?

Sorry, there really is a point to this post. Somewhere. I'm standing in my usual spot behind my computer at work (well, it's officially NOT my spot anymore, but more on that in a bit). Woman comes to the counter, "Oh! You're pregnant!"
Um, no, I'm infertile. Not pregnant.
No, that's not what I said, but believe me, that's what I thought. Why do people even say that unless the person is strapped into the stirrups giving birth? To make matters worse, I even had on my skinny cords. I. Did. Not. Look. Remotely. Pregnant.

That point? Yeah, sorry. It's here. Somewhere.

It's been almost two years now, and still nothing. It still sucks. It still sucks a lot, but I've made something of a peace with it. The last year has been supah stressful. We've sold a house, started building a house, lived with the in-laws, gave up building the house because our builder sucked big, hairy balls, we bought a new house, we moved into new house, my job became hell on earth. You know, nothing major. OB seems to think the stress has nothing to do with my failure as a woman (no, I really don't feel that way, I'm just being dramatic). I am begging to differ.

So, where are we? I mentioned the job? Yeah, I'm moving on. The weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. I am soon to start my dream job. I am giddy. It is also coming at a good time in the whole trying to conceive saga. I'm about to start a new job. It's not a good time to get pregnant. We are going to take a break. We're going to chill out, relax, and enjoy the beautiful, smart, hysterically funny, sometimes ginormous pain in the butt, child we have now. Six months from now? It's on.

You hear that uterus? You got six months.

Trapped, with no possible chance for escape.

I swear, sometimes I think the Blog Gods deliberately put me in situations to see how I will write about them. That happened today. If I hadn't already lost all faith in humanity, it would would have been gone after this episode.

I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. I am actually leaving early enough to where I won't be rushed and should get there in plenty of time, for once. Yay me. Start the car, a funny looking, random light flashes on my dashboard. I try resetting it, car yells at me. Apparently something is funky with my tire. I get out, look at them, they look fine. I call the Husband. He tells me to go to the dealership after my appointment and have them look at it. So much for the fifteen minute edge I had.

Get to the dealership, they look at me like I have three heads when I try to explain what the deal is. Um, no, I don't know how to check the air pressure in my tires. No, I don't know how to put air in my tires. Yes, these are things that I should probably know how to do, but alas, I don't. Can you do it for me? Um-kay, thanks. I'll just go sit in the waiting area.

So, I'm sitting. In anticipation of having to wait, I brought entertainment for myself. Little did I know I wouldn't need it. Minutes later, in walks a threesome, a surly looking teenager, her mother, and her grandmother. Grandma immediately starts protesting that the tv is on a news station. "We need to get this tv changed. I need to watch my stories." Okay, I lied. She really didn't say she needed to watch her "stories," I made that up. She DID say that she needed to change the tv to her soap opera. She wanders over to the check-out desk and demands that the clerk change the tv. Loudly. The poor clerk had no idea how to change the channel, as it has been stuck on Fox News for the last ten years. (The joys of Red State living) Grandma is not accepting this as a response. She begins yelling, and by yelling I mean shrieking, that someone better get over here and turn the tv for her or she will do it herself.

At this point, the bitch in me wants to say, "Ma'am, I was watching this. Please do not turn the tv." I didn't, but I wish I had. She finally finds someone to change the channel for her. Then she begins bitching about the volume, "this ain't no silent movie theater! Turn the damn thing up."

Seriously? Shoot me now. I give her the stink eye. Surly Teenager begins smacking her gum, and continues smacking her gum for the entire 8 hours that I was trapped in there. Okay, so it wasn't eight hours, more like 45 minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

Why? Why? Do I have an annoyingly obnoxious people magnet in my forehead? Where do these people come from? And why do they apparently seek me out? Anyone?

Karma's a bitch, bitch.

I know I'm guilty, I've done it before. I've judged another mom over her kid's behavior. But honestly, that was a long time ago. Now, I see the poor woman struggling with a miniature tyrant and I offer a friendly smile. Kids suck sometimes. Well, not the kids, but their behavior.

We are currently on vacation. My child is NOT a fan of change of any sort. He doesn't do well with changes to his routine. Throw in the fact that he's been sick this week, so he's already out of sorts, oh yeah, and the fact that he's THREE, and you have a recipe for disaster. He's testing his limits, he's NOT listening to a word Husband or I say. And he thinks this is funny.

This afternoon? Nightmare. We were walking around near the beach, on a pier, looking for the occasional dolphin. He decides he's had enough. He takes off running. I catch up to him, try to get him to smile for a picture (seriously, I'm in NO pictures from this weekend). I grab his hand, he musters up super human three year old strength and pulls me to the ground. I fell on top of him. Somehow both of us escape serious injury, although my knee still hurts. I'm feeling pretty shitty right now. We try for ice cream. He winds up covered in it. Seriously, covered in chocolate ice cream. We head for the playground. There are several other kids with their parents. I should mention that these kids are apparently little angels who never do anything wrong, who never speak out of turn, who always listen, and never, EVER walk around with chocolate ice cream covering them from head to toe.

Wee One pulls his shoes off.
"Put your shoes back on."
He ignores me.
"Put your shoes back on. Now."
He continues to ignore me.
I chase him down, wrestle him to the ground, and get his shoes on him. He's shrieking like I'm beating him.

He's playing on one of the jungle gyms. So is another little girl. "Get off. This is mine," he tells her. She looks hurt.
I sternly say his name and give him THE LOOK. Guess what he does? Right. Ignores me.
"You can't play here," he tells this little girl again.

I begin using THE VOICE along with THE LOOK. You know the one, the one where you're yelling, but your teeth are clenched, so it doesn't sound like you're yelling? Yep, that one. He begins shrieking again.

WE. ARE. GOING. HOME.

At this point, I notice this woman staring at me. Like seriously, staring holes in me. She is pushing her angelic, not quite one year old, child in a swing. She continues to stare as I wrestle my child to the ground again. I raise my voice again. Yep, still staring. I keep waiting on her to whip out her phone and call child protective services on me. Her child smiles and giggles pleasantly.

I want to say, "you know, he was like that once. Oh yes, we thought we had the perfect child, we thought he would never drive us crazy. I said I would never, ever yell at my child, especially not in a public place. Just. You. Wait." Instead, I pull out my iPod and start Tweeting about my horrible child. She is STILL STARING at me.

So, let me just say, judge all you want now. But just wait. One day, that will be you. That will be your child shrieking and yelling bloody murder because he wants his shoes off, or he wants to run play in traffic. Just wait. You will lose your composure, you will yell. Just wait. But guess what? I'm not going to stare at you. I've been there. I know how it feels. I'm just going to smile at you, because honey? The fun is just beginning.

I suppose it's only fair

I admit, I probably deserve it. I did spend three days last week blissfully floating in the Atlantic Ocean, the only care in my head was what to order from the bar next. It's only fair that The Hubs got to go away this weekend. I was excited about my weekend with my favorite three year old. We were going to have a blast. Right.

I should have crawled back into bed before I even got out this morning. From the minute the Wee One started knocking on his door, Mommeh! It's time to wake up! I could tell it was going to be quite the day. Upon opening his door and letting him out for the day (I'm only *slightly* paranoid about him getting out of his room and trying to come downstairs in the dark, so I have a doorknob cover on his knob AND a gate up outside his room. Yes, he can navigate the stairs pretty well now, but it makes me feel better. Don't judge me.) he proceeds to attach himself to my hip. This was totally fine for an hour or so. We get some great cuddle time watching Blues Clues and Max & Ruby (have I mentioned my hatred for Ruby and her bitchy friend Louise?) I got a good laugh (to myself) as he began singing the Wonder Pets theme song, "Lenny, F***, and Ming Ming too." I explain to the child that I need to take a shower so we can get ready to go to the mall. I get to the shower, turn the water on, get my hair slightly wet, when I hear,

"MOMMEH!! I need to go poopie!"

Lovely. He had already pooped once this morning, so I thought I was in the clear. (The problem with potty training is that he won't go by himself at home. He'll say he needs "piracy" but he's lying.) By the time I get my towel wrapped around myself, he's let one slip. It ends up getting everywhere. I want to cry.

It takes me nearly two hours to finally get ready (normally a 30-45 minute process from shower to finish). It's difficult when a three year old is wanting his hair blown dry and wanting makeup. We get out the door, make it safely to the mall, he even goes in his stroller without protest. This is too easy, I think. We get through a couple of stores, I buy what I need to buy. He wants to go in Build-A-Bear. Okay, I think. This will be fun. Right.

First, he wants a dinosaur. They have no dinosaurs. We settle on a black bear. Then he wants to get in the fluff thingy. Yeah, like get inside it ("with the snow" he says). We make it to the register. He doesn't want the bear anymore. He sees a bear with a batman costume on and he freaks the f*** out. Holy hell. (Yes, I should have left the store at this point. I will learn this one day, but we had stuffed the bear, they wrote his name on it, blah, blah, blah, I felt obligated to buy it.) This fabulous, wonderful, incredibly nice woman in front of me in line hands me two $10 coupons, "get him batman." She smiles as she hands me the coupons. I want to hug her. I seriously almost do.

Wee One, BatmanBear, and I go to Mickey D's for lunch. He tells the woman at the table beside us that he's going to have a baby sister. "Congratulations!" she tells me. Um, no. Sorry. I laugh. Not pregnant (dammit). She laughs, "kids say the craziest things, don't they."

Later in the afternoon, we're in Publix. "It's MY BIRFDAY!!" he's shrieking at the top of his lungs. Guess what? It's NOT his birthday. The (cute, but oh so young) bag boy is laughing at Wee One. "Want a three year old?" I ask him. He thinks that's pretty funny. Um, dude, I wasn't kidding.

Oh what a day. It's amazing though, how you forget all of that when that warm, squishy, wriggly little body cuddles up to you while you're reading a bedtime story, "I wuv you mommeh." Like Scarlett said, tomorrow is another day.

I was on a boat...with my flippie floppies

Reality sucks, did you know that? Two days ago, I was blissfully floating on a boat, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by some very interesting characters.

Picture it, a four door sedan filled with five women, and their luggage. (I did quite well shoving all my shit in one suitcase, might I add.) We're headed down the road for a weekend of debauchery aboard a Carnival cruise ship. As you can imagine, a cruise ship is ideal for people watching, and judging of course. We encountered some interesting characters. Allow me to introduce you.

Jello-Thong Chick
One piece jump suits aren't really flattering on anyone. Especially if they're a strapless top/tight pants combo. That's what this chick had on that caught my eye in the first place. Sure, she was a tiny chick, but still, the outfit was horrific. Fast forward to lunch on the boat. She's sitting across from us with her (not hot) boy toy. He's got a plate full of cruise food. Her? She's eating a tiny bowl of jello with a side of lettuce. I smell anorexia. Oh look, she's taking a bite of Boy Toy's cheesecake. Maybe she's more the scarf and barf variety. Fast forward a few more hours. We're all sitting on the deck, enjoying the sun. One of my sisters in law hits me.
"LOOK! It's Jello girl!"
I look. Not only is it Jello girl, but Jello girl is wearing a thong. Yep. A thong. I'm no prude, but not finding the need for the thong on a boat full of children. (And her ass? Looked like jello. Just sayin.) And a nickname was born. Sadly, we didn't see Jello-Thong Chick again. I was a little sad.

Douche 1 and Douche 2
This dynamic duo came as a package. A couple. Aw yeah. Cue the porno/strip club music here. As we're sitting on that same deck, shortly after our visit from Jello-Thong Chick, we notice a couple sitting on a chair, together. We notice they're making out. And when I say making out? I mean pretty much having sex right there. Apparently what we thought was just the top deck was in actuality The Ass Deck. We sit and judge, rather loudly for a bit. They aren't at all disturbed by the masses of people around. Ah, young and in love. A few hours pass and it's time for dinner. We have the late seating, and we're stuck in almost the back corner of the dining room (apparently our reputation preceeds us). Guess who's sitting behind us? That's right. Douche 1 and Douche 2. And they have two kids with them. And they're still making out. For reals. There was some finger licking, some face licking, some heavy petting, some happy touching. All in front of God and the rest of the boat.

I guess the kids were too much for Douche 1 and Douche 2 to pay attention to, what with all the necking and such (do people still "neck?"). The kids came to dinner alone the next night. Yeah, they were 8 and 9, and pretty much on their own on a cruise ship. Lovely adult role models they had. Douche 1 and Douche 2 were nice enough to come to dinner the last night of the cruise. They even wore their nicest jorts and cut off t-shirts.

Puddin' and Company
We began judging our dinner companions before we even realized we would be dining with them. Two older couples and one random chick who happened to be the daughter of one of the women. Random chick is covered with body glitter and is dressed like she's late for the strip club. Her mother, who's name just happened to be Puddin' was quite proud of her bubbehs. We spent the next three nights praying that the bubbehs didn't come out to see us. The other couple were pretty much unremarkable except for a conversation on our last night at sea. I don't know how in the hell the word "fellatio" was worked into conversation, but it was.
"What's fellatio?" Husband asked.
"I'll show you later." Giggle. Says the wife.
Um, barf?

All in all, it was a wonderful weekend, filled with naps, food, and fruity drinks. Getting back to reality? Not as much fun.