The Day My Pride Died

Last week I made an enormous ass of myself at my husband’s place of employment.

He’s a manager at a car dealership, and I don’t know what kind of people the other managers have coming to visit them at work, but I highly doubt Robbie will ask me to stop by and visit him again anytime soon.

I could offer up a thousand reasons why I was so stressed out, but the summarized version is that I was out running errands with two of my children, trying to beat the rain. We were right across the street from where he works, and I thought, you know what, I should call Robbie and ask him to come meet us for lunch. That would be a nice thing to do. So I did.

I’m a good wife. A thoughtful wife.

He said he could not meet us, but would we like to stop by the dealership instead? He just moved to a new store, and I have not met any of his new co-workers yet or seen his fancy new office.

I looked at the sky, which was black. I looked at our two youngest children, who were both covered in cinnamon sugar. I looked at myself, and quickly looked away. This was NOT a good time to make a first impression.

“Of course,” I said. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The dealership was very busy, and because I was distracted by all of the activity, I pulled in the wrong way and a mail truck was blocking my path. Robbie emerged from the building and watched as I tried and failed to maneuver our gigantic van into a parking spot as our over-excited children shrieked and screamed “DADDDDDDDY! DAAAAAAAAADDY!” from the backseat.

My 4-year-old unbuckled himself and slammed into the back of the front passenger seat as I rolled over a curb. “WHY ARE YOU UNBUCKLED?!” I screeched as I threw it into reverse. By now a crowd was gathering. Robbie visibly cringed as I tried once more to squeeze our vehicle into a too-small spot. And that is when it happened.

I snapped.

Maybe it was all the errand-running. Maybe my nerves were shot, and my blood sugar was low and I was over caffeinated. Maybe I should have declined his offer to come visit and maybe I should have worn a more flattering outfit and MAYBE I HAVE NO BUSINESS DRIVING THIS MOTHER FUCKER OF A VAN.

Muttering unrepeatable phrases under my breath, I squealed off, again in the wrong direction, trying to turn around. By now everyone was definitely staring, and I was furious — with myself, with my husband, with the screeching children, and with life in general.

I drove directly into a dead end portion of the Hyundai lot and screamed. Then I realized that my window was rolled down.

pRIDE

This is the actual dealership where my pride passed away.

Two salesmen were watching me, and I imagined the following conversation taking place:

Salesman #1: Hey man, do you see the new finance guy’s batshit crazy wife attempting a 3-point turn in that tiny area surrounded by brand new cars?

Salesman #2: DUDE.

Salesman #1: I hope she hits one. That would be AMAZING.

Salesman #2: It’s looking like she might.

Salesman #1: Damn, she made it out.

I finally made it back around to the appropriate parking space. My husband unloaded our stunned children and I sat in the car, too mortified to exit the vehicle. “We can sneak in through the courtyard,” Robbie said. “There’s a back door. No one will see you.”

I got a baseball cap out of my bag and pulled it low over my face. I avoided eye contact as we sneaked in through the back door. Because that’s what my life has become.

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Toddlers Who Can’t Even

Ceci can't even

Cannot.

I love it when my friends send me pictures of their hilarious children and allow me to meme them. Also, I do this EXACT thing at least 5 times a day.

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Epic Humiliation Post-Concussion

I got a concussion last week, but this blog post is not about that. Don’t worry, I’ll tell the story eventually — but right now I want to talk about how I managed to epically humiliate myself as a result of said concussion.

Are you ready? Okay.

The guy who cuts our grass is Robbie’s childhood best friend’s brother. I would really prefer for Robbie to cut our grass himself, because nothing is more of a turn on for me than a man doing physical labor, but he works a lot now that he’s back in the car business. So we pay his friend’s brother to do it.

I can’t ever seem to recall the guy’s real name, because everyone calls him Wolfie, and I’m not sure if I am allowed to call him that or not, so I don’t call him anything. I just smile and wave.

Yesterday morning I took the little kids to preschool and I was quite proud of myself for doing so, because it was the first time I’ve been able to operate a motor vehicle since getting concussed without feeling like I was completely and utterly drunk. When I returned home, Wolfie was at our house. I was not thinking clearly begin with, and his presence caught me off guard.

Let me go ahead and explain that I normally think quite clearly. It’s not typical for me to be fuzzy-brained, even with three kids, but I was in the E.R. with a concussion 9 days prior to this occurrence and I am still not myself. So I rolled down my window and said good morning, the whole time thinking, “OH SHIT, WHAT IS THIS DUDE’S NAME AND WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER IT EVEN THOUGH I NEVER SAY IT ALOUD BECAUSE I’M NOT SURE IF I AM ALLOWED TO CALL HIM THAT NAME.”

A few minutes into our conversation, I realized he was looking at me funny. Maybe it was because I was acting funny. So I then felt compelled to explain to him that I got a concussion last Monday and his expression turned from slight confusion to mild horror, so I followed up with an explanation of how it happened and watched his horror turn to utter shock.

Then I told him I was going to go inside to write him a check and that I would be right back.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I can just bill you.”

But no, I had to go on and on about how I hate letting bills pile up and I definitely wanted to pay him today, so he shrugged and said okay. He stood in my driveway with his weed eater turned off, waiting for me to return.

Except that when I got inside I couldn’t find the checkbook.

And then I couldn’t remember his real name — first OR last — and how much we pay him to cut our grass. So then I just sort of pretended that I forgot.

He eventually turned the weed eater back on and proceeded to spend the next hour mowing our grass. But then he was done, and he knocked on the back door, because I was supposed to have returned with a check over an hour ago.

I was too mortified about my lapse in memory and series of bad choices to do what I should have done, which was to hand him a blank check and ask him to fill it out for me.

cRINGE

Truth be told, I was afraid if he knew how bad my mental situation really was 9 days post-concussion, he would refuse to leave me alone, and after almost 2 weeks of having other adults up my ass telling me what NOT to do I just couldn’t handle it.

So I laid on the floor.

He continued to knock.

I called Robbie.

“I’m in a weird situation and I need your help.”

“What KIND of weird situation?”

“Ummm … what the guy’s name who mows our grass?”

“Wolfie.”

“He’s here, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I died.”

WHAT?!

Basically, Wolfie is the nicest guy ever and when I did not come to the door, he called his brother, who called my husband and asked if he needed to KICK THE DOOR IN TO CHECK ON ME.

Robbie thankfully explained that I was fine. A tad off, obviously, but fine.

I cannot put into words how mortified I would have been if he had kicked in the door. But also? I totally deserved it.

So the next time I see Wolfie, I’m going to hug him and apologize.

Or I might lie on the floor and play dead.

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This Post Is Not Politically Correct.

This is a post about how much I loathe those who are easily offended.

In recent years, I have watched the world around me grow increasingly politically correct. We are expected to alter our speech and behavior to avoid offending different groups of people.

We choose our words carefully, but even so, arguments rage on social media over seemingly innocuous comments or articles — which, I might add, I avoid unless I’m feeling particularly ragey.

168242_10152838226015508_735672233_n

I get the idea behind it. We want to be an inclusive, accepting society. We don’t want to make anyone feel left out or unwanted.

In moderation, or using what I like to call common sense, this seems like a logical, mannerly way to live and do business. I am a genuinely polite and caring person. I would never want to offend anyone on purpose unless they truly deserved it, but I am SO TIRED OF PEOPLE GETTING THEIR PANTIES IN A WAD.

In our effort to be “politically correct,” we have armed those who have absolutely no sense whatsoever with the entitlement to get offended by everything that they don’t understand or identify with.

Rather than, say, moving on and finding another website to peruse, or flipping to the next page in the newspaper, or (gasp!) changing the television channel, these people instead cry in outrage “This is OFFENSIVE!”

Then they stop whatever it is that they were doing before said offense took place to look up the contact information for the offending source, OR, my personal favorite — they make a comment on social media — to state just how offended they are. Then, I suppose they must anxiously await the transgressor’s apology.

It must be a very long wait.

I am very weary of people who are easily offended. They are the adult version of whiny toddlers, and I am full up on whining over here because I have a house full of actual children. However, because I’m not completely heartless, I made a short list of tips for people who are easily offended to follow — should they wish to no longer be offended by what they see and hear.

Harmony’s Tips For People Who Are Easily Offended And Wish To Avoid Being Offended:

  1. Stop internetting.
  2. Subscribe only to reading materials that you deem “safe.” Some suggestions: Encyclopedia Brittanica, Webster’s Dictionary, The Bible.
  3. Cease all communication with the outside world.
  4. AVOID DONALD TRUMP.

See? So easy!

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My Charred Uterus.

My uterus has served me well. 4 pregnancies, 1 miscarriage, 3 healthy babies.

All of my deliveries were relatively uncomplicated, I recovered quickly, and my uterus went right back to business. She did her job dutifully and predictably. I respected her for her hard work. We were partners.

But somewhere along the line, between the miscarriage and having my last two children very close together, my uterus and I stopped getting along. You know what it’s like to be stuck with a cranky bitch who makes everything miserable? That’s what it was like hanging out with my uterus.

After almost 2 years of issues, my husband begged me to go see what could be done about her. I sheepishly made my postpartum follow-up appointment … two years late.

“Your uterus is irritable,” the doctor said.

“Just like her owner,” I replied.

My uterus didn’t like that one bit.

My doctor ruled out every possible cause and finally said that my uterus was “unremarkable” (in addition to being irritable — she was really pissed off now) and I am otherwise perfectly healthy. He recommended an endometrial ablation. In layman’s terms: they go in there and laser off the uterine lining so there is nothing to slough off. No more periods.

Sold.

This isn’t a method of birth control, but it doesn’t matter because Robbie had a vasectomy as part of our agreement during The Great Negotiation For Our Third Child. The nurse who was in charge of me yesterday couldn’t BELIEVE that my doctor would trust me not to get a side piece of man meat.

“Your tubes aren’t tied?!”  she gasped. “You know … if you … you know (looking at my husband to see if he was paying attention) with someone else, you could still get pregnant and you would have a bad outcome. Your doctor must trust you a lot.”

“Of course he trusts me,” I said. “I’m a writer.”

I gave her a business card.

Seriously considering changing the name of this blog to

Seriously considering changing the name of this blog to “Modern Mommy Medness.”

With all of my kids squirreled away, and under the effects of some amazing drugs, I had a really good time in the hospital. I’ve never been under any kind of sedation and have never seen the inside of an operating room, so it was a whole new experience. I was sad because they made me take my contacts out, and then remove my glasses before they wheeled me back, so I couldn’t see anything in the O.R. and I knew there was a lot to see.

I had a lot of questions.

I think they knocked me out early just so I would shut up.

Robbie reports as they were wheeling me back into my room the following conversation happened between me and a group of nurses:

Me: “I have a question. Do I have to wear pads after this?”

Nurses: “Yes, you will need to wear them.”

Me: (yelling) “I don’t have any pads! FUCK THAT! I burned them all after my third child!”

Nurses: “Well, Mrs. Hobbs … that’s why they sell them in stores.”

I have no recollection of this.

While Robbie did not manage to get that exchange on video, he did get manage to capture a really weird conversation which ended with me trying — and failing — to open a pack of crackers. And yes, the “spaceships” were actually the big lights in the operating room.

Enjoy.

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Namaselfie.

Sometimes I do weird things in semi-public places, simply for the sake of this blog.

20150320_093217~2An old lady was totally staring at me while this happened. It’s fine.

Yesterday morning, after I had my coffee, I opened up social media and saw glaring headlines about certain wine brands being laced with arsenic. Rather than looking into it further, I texted my husband and informed him that I know how I’m going to die.

I’m going to die of arsenic poisoning.

“No you won’t,” he said. “You’ve built up an immunity to it by now.” Apparently, a person can actually become immune to arsenic over time by putting small amounts of it in their system.

Whew. That was a close one.

Gangsters In Training.

Are you looking for the perfect daycare for your would-be gangster?

Do you want your child to learn the subtle art of drug dealing or con-artistry?

Are you already saving up bail money and teaching them the definition of “white-collar crime?”

If you answered “yes” to the above questions, then look no further! This is only daycare around that offers a shady playground, where your child can learn to swing, slide, and hide their shivs.

My husband is the one who spotted this. I immediately made him turn the car around.

My husband is the one who spotted this. I immediately made him turn the car around.

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