OMG vs. Meet The Press

Growing old sneaks up on you. One day you are in Vegas dancing on the table in a g-string…the next day you find yourself cleaning your toliets while wearing cotton panties from Walgreens. Life is funny that way, and if you aren’t careful, you can be caught off guard.

Almost 5 months ago, my husband came home and said "Hey Baby, I got the best present for you!" “What is it?" I asked, secretly hoping it was the new bedspread from Pottery Barn I had been coveting. He said, “Babe, I got us USHER tickets for this summer!” Usher? Really? Wow…who knew??? I have always liked Usher, loved a few of his songs, and thought he was pretty cute…but the truth is I am not really the concert going type. Growing up, I watched as my brother toured the country following Phish, The Grateful Dead, and String Cheese. I, on the other hand, only attended two concerts as a kid…one was Milli Vanilli and the other was MC Hammer. Once you have seen talent like that, anything else is bound to be a let down.

From the start, I knew we were in over our heads. As I watched my husband carefully place our portable drink cooler into our 3 year old’s car seat, I knew we had made a mistake. I couldn’t remember, do people tailgate at concerts or not? The fact that we were driving to an Usher concert in a gold colored Toyota Sienna with tinted windows made me uncomfortable. We were white, we were in a minivan, and we were going to Usher on a school night. It was risky, out of character, and in general, a bad idea…but we had something to prove and nothing was going to stop us.

As we got into the car, I literally fought the urge to jump out, run inside, and climb into bed for a four-hour HGTV marathon. Instead, I did what I do best, I filled the air with meaningless conversation and brilliant rationalization.

Me: “This is so great, it is going to be Awesome!”

Husband: “Yeah.”

Me: “I love Usher, we should have made a CD to play in the car. It’s so nice to be together. This is so great, it is going to be Awesome!”

Husband: “Yeah.”

Me: “I can’t wait to see where our seats are…concerts are fun…this is wild, we really are fun. I am SO not tired. This is great.”

Husband: “Yeah.”

I was so happy to see he was just as excited as I was…

On the ride to the concert, we talked and tried to reconnect. Earlier in the day we had found out that a tornado watch was issued in my mother-in-law’s town. So, for most of the ride to Usher, my husband was on the phone with his mom…who was currently holed up in her basement in Boston. She was hiding under some piece of furniture with no electricity and doing her best to stay calm. I kept hearing him say things like “Yes Mom, I wish you had an emergency kit also…Of course drinking water in the basement would have been smart…Do you hear anything that sounds like a train coming?” If that conversation doesn’t get you in the mood for a night out on the town, what does? (she was safe...thank goodness).

As we pulled into the parking lot, while listening to NPR, we did our best to fit in. We pulled out our cocktails and tried to relax. We drank our drinks out of plastic reusable bottles, because not only were we a cool couple, we are also friends of the enviroment. After I chugged an entire bottle of Skinny Margarita (Bethany Frankel…genius!) we headed in to the concert.

We missed the opening act and got to our seats around 9:30pm. When Usher came on, he was lifted to the top of the Staples Center on some type of floating device. As he stood there with his arms wide open, he would intermittently make the sound, “EWWWHHHHHH!” as the crowd went wild. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to enjoy it because I couldn't stop worrying about Usher's safety. “HONEY, DO YOU THINK HE IS SAFE UP THERE? IT IS SO HIGH!" Finally my husband looked over at me and said, “Please stop…you have problems.”

Eventually the concert began and everyone was on their feet...for a really long time. Finally we sat down, but the couple in front of us did not. They were younger, cooler, and having way more fun. As I watched in horror, my husband reached forward and said “Excuse me, can you guys please sit down?” From that point on, I was certain we were going to get stabbed in the parking lot.

For the rest of the concert, we said things like “GOSH IT IS SO LOUD IN HERE!”, “I DON’T KNOW THIS SONG?”, “WHAT TIME IS IT?” “MY CONTACT HAS DRIED OUT FROM ALL THE MARAJUNA SMOKE!”. At one point, Usher invited a young woman from the audience to come on stage with him. He had her lay down on a lounge chair and pretended to have sex with her while singing in her ear. Although my husband was smiling for the first time all night, I was resisting the urge to run down there and tell her, “He is using you! It’s all an act. Go to college, get a degree, don’t let this define your life!”

Throughout the concert, Usher lifted his white tank top up at least 136 times. I have never seen someone’s abs more in my life. Around midnight, we both agreed it was time to go. As we were walking out, someone said, “You can’t leave, he hasn’t even played OMG yet?!?!” On that note, we knew the night had come to an end.

The following night, while wearing my cotton panties and reading my kindle as my husband watched Meet the Press, we smiled and realized...this is about as cool as we get.

Getting older is never easy...

Love and Clorox: Why having a Cleaning Lady is Risky Business

Poor Maria Shriver…she was all I could think about this week. As I watched her on Oprah’s finale, trying to smile and act like everything was OK, I thought about how devastated she must be. First she had to watch him run for Governor, then she has to stand by him while he got caught groping women, and then, to top it all off, he goes and has a love child with their cleaning lady…not a fun week to be Mrs. Schwarzenegger.

She has a right to be really, really mad. Think of all the time she spent getting Botox, plastic surgery, hair extensions, acrylic nails and not to mention starving herself, only to find out NONE of it mattered. She probably used to say things like, “I would love to have a margarita, but they have SO many calories, Arnold likes women that are in shape.” No Maria, sadly he doesn’t. As a matter of fact, you could have let it rip. You could have gone ahead and eaten some chips, had a bowl of ice cream, or hell, funneled a Pina Colada, it didn’t matter. He was banging the cleaning lady…and I know why.

A few years ago, I came home from work exhausted and tired. It had been an unusually rough day. As I slowly opened the door and took a deep breath, I was overwhelmed by the scent of what I imagine heaven smells like. As I took another long inhale, my lungs were filled with the intoxicating smell of Pine Sol and Clorox. As I looked around my house, a warm feeling began to fill my heart. With shiny eyes and joy in my soul, I cherished the fact that my house was clean, spotless, and free of dust bunnies. The best part was, I didn’t make that way, a woman named Claudia did. In that moment, I fell in love with my cleaning lady. Arnold I feel your pain.

My cleaning lady has been with me for over six years. You might think the feelings would have dimmed, but no, the love affair has only gotten more intense. It seems as if every year, my love for her grows deeper and deeper. Hiding these feeling from everyone has been exhausting, but I knew I couldn’t let my family know how I felt about her. Would they think I didn’t like to clean, couldn’t clean, or didn’t know how to clean? If so, what kind of woman does that make me? I was afraid it would wreck everything. Arnold, I understand your fear.

Luckily for me, unlike Arnold, she isn’t in my home everyday. I don’t know if I could have handled that. But every other Monday, around 4pm, I find myself happier than I ever thought I could be. A few weeks ago, right after she left, I had to get something out of my closet. When I opened it up and saw all of my fitted sheets, the ones with those stretchy corners, folded into perfectly neat squares, stacked one on top of the other, I could barely contain my joy. I couldn’t stop myself from thinking, “She is so AMAZING! How does she do it? How can I get her to be in my home more often? What did I do to deserve this?” These questions still keep me up at night. Arnold, I understand how she changed your life.

In terms of us seeing each other, it varies from week to week. There are times when I get home before she leaves and times when I am just left with her memory…a clean refrigerator door, clothes hung perfectly on hangers, or shoes lined up in neat little rows. At those moment, happiness fills my heart and the love I have for her takes my breathe away. When she hasn’t been around for a week or so, I get nervous. I start counting down the days until I will see her again. My life begins to be about when she will be back, what she will do, and how good it will feel when it is done. As I think about these things, I realized that Arnold and I have a lot in common. I assume he also thought he couldn’t live without his cleaning lady. It is not easy to love two people so deeply. Arnold, I understand how you feel.

A few weeks ago, I walked into my bedroom and the smell of Pledge nearly brought me to my knees. Is there any better smell on Earth? That smell, along with the fact that she had wiped down ALL of my refrigerator shelves and organized my canned food by height, left me practically speechless. I wanted to find this woman, kiss her, hug her and tell her to never go away. If she were to have walked in that room, I might have physically assaulted her. I might have grabbed her and said the things Arnold said to his cleaning lady, “I love you. I can’t live without you. You are my everything.” Arnold, I don’t know if I would have gone as far as wanting to have a baby with her, but you obviously just got carried away.

I am grateful that my cleaning lady is female…I think it is safer for me that way. If I had to watch a man clean my baseboards, we might have some infidelity on our hands. The way she is able to take my dirty, messy house, and turn it into a hotel room, with tight sheets, mopped floors, and lined up shampoo bottles is a gift that I will never tire of receiving. Arnold obviously felt the same way.

The truth is everyone loves the people in their lives that make their world run smoother. Whether it’s the gardener, the maid, the nanny, the secretary, or the UPS man. Nothing is sexier than having someone help you do something you couldn’t or wouldn’t want to do yourself. The days I love my husband the most are days he has done some type of manual labor I could never do on my own. Nothing turns me on more than watching him lift something heavy or hoist a large storage box into the garage. I can’t help myself...I fall in love all over again. The other day, as I watched him fill a hole with dirt and carry a pile of old tree branches to a trashcan, I screamed out the window, “I have never wanted you more than right now!” To that he replied, “You are one sick woman.”

The truth is I believe if I ever ended up homeless, I would still find someone to clean my shopping cart. So Arnold, you made a big mistake and what you did was wrong. But I want you to know, we understand how it started...everyone loves their cleaning lady.

My Brother's Wedding

There are times in life when everything just seems to fall into place. When you look around, smile, and say “thank you God.” For me that moment came at age 33, as I stood up on an old wooden deck, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, watching my brother and his beautiful fiancé take their vows. As I watched the tears fall from my brother’s face, I felt so much love and peace inside. This weekend wasn’t just about my brother getting married, it was about so much more, and the details are as heartwarming as they are hysterical.

Thursday night: We land in Ft. Lauderdale and my aunt, uncle, and grandmother pull up in their 1990 white Conversion van. To entertain the kids, my aunt turns on the VHS machine (which in 1990 was included for a small extra cost) and we begin to watch a video titled “Wild America.” The sound of a lion eating a cheetah barely drowns out my daughter screaming. I realize we need to feed the kids quickly, and by something I consider the opposite of a miracle, we end up at a Chili’s. We order a round of appetizers that totals at least 15,000 calories and 750 grams of fat. The restaurant was full of large women in jean shorts and old men in tank tops…it was so good to be home! We wait almost two hours for our food to be delivered and the waiter finally says, “Sorry, we just got slammed. Tonight, is a school fundraiser…each time someone order potatoes skins or nachos, 10% of their bill goes to a charity.” Who am I to complain?

We check into our hotel, the kids jump on the beds, and my daughter almost flies through one of the sliding glass doors. My dad comes to help us with the kids, takes them for a walk, loses them on the beach, tries to whistle to get them back (like he does with his golden retriever), and eventually locates his grandchildren. He is exhausted and brings them back to our hotel room…approximately ten minutes after they had first left. They go to bed at 1:30am...awesome.

Friday: For some scientific reason, the kids stay on West Coast time at night and East Coast time in the morning. One of the lovely things they don’t tell you about in all those parenting books. We swim in the pool, we swim in the ocean, and we have great family fun. I try to do all of this while not getting my hair wet. We go through the rehearsal, everybody does great, and then unfortunatley, my daughter starts to cry. She can’t understand why she isn’t wearing her fancy flower girl dress and quickly begins to meltdown. In order to keep things under control, I start to give her candy and treats every time she does something right…just like you would for a dog.

After the rehearsal, we board a party bus with 60 people. When we get on, the bus has air conditioning. After thirty guys in suits sit down, hip-hop music gets played, and four cases of Michelob Ultra get drunk, the air conditioning doesn’t work so well. For the next hour, we resemble a reality T.V show…imagine Big Brother + MTV Road Trip (with no air condition) + Survivor (the water went quickly). We head to Buccan, the best restaurant ever, and eat the greatest meal of my life. My dad makes a nice toast and my husband asks for a doggy bag. I wasn’t sure about the etiquette on the last one, but I was in a happy mood and let it go. Can you say team player?

We get back on the bus and ride home. We dance to different songs, take lots of pictures, and enjoy ourselves. I loved every minute. We get back to the hotel and everyone discusses where to go next. I say, “Hey I am going to run upstairs, change, go to the bathroom, and come back down.” I run upstairs, change, go to the bathroom…and crawl into bed. The good news is, no one noticed I was gone. The bad news is, no one noticed that I was gone.

Saturday: I wake up after a 5 glorious hours of sleep, only 6 hours short of what I needed, and head down to the pool with my kids. I spray my kids and myself with as much sunscreen as possible. Then I spray my husband and really focus on his head, which has recently become a ‘highly exposed’ spot. We are greased up, glowing white, and ready to enjoy the day. We go in the ocean and jump around as a family…if you didn’t know better you might have thought we were Midwestern tourists filming a commercial for a Sandals Resort or Carnival Cruise Line.

After getting my hair and make-up done, I go back to the resort to get the kids ready. When I see my daughter, I notice she has terrible sunburn. I ask my husband what happened and he says, “You never told me I needed to reapply sunscreen…how was I supposed to know?” I want to say terrible and mean things to him, but I hold back. I remind myself this day is about new beginnings and love. Eventually we are dressed and ready to go. Because we are all dressed up, and in a beautiful location, I force my family to take a million pictures. My great hope is that at least one will turn out well. I scream at them, they scream at me, and eventually we are done. As we speak, my favorite picture is being blown up at Walgreens…the only downside is that my husband's head is cut off above his eyebrows. At this point, I don’t really give a damn.

The wedding is beautiful, the kids do their thing, and the bride and the groom are glowing. After the dances, my brother grabs the mic, and serenades his new wife with “I Love You” by Climax Blues Band. The song is passionate, amazing, and slightly off key. It makes me cry and cheer and laugh. The party begins, the band is awesome, and someone breaks out the worm. Around 11pm, the bride and groom surprise the guests with a touch of the Islands. As we stare outside, we watch as a steel marching band, made up of twelve African Americans in full costume and headdresses, begin to march into the country club. All of the extremely white guests rise to their feet and dance with such passion and rhythm that I believe many may have surprised themselves. As I watch this amazing event I think to myself, “Why is it that white people always include African American bands when they want to have fun, yet it doesn’t work the other way?” I have yet to meet a young African American couple that said, “Hey Honey, you know what our wedding needs? A little spirit and fun! Why don’t we invite a white band to come and play some Billy Joel, you know, liven up the place?” Nothing against Billy Joel, but white people still have so much work to do…

The groom makes his 3^rd toast to his wife, and tells her again he would be nothing without her. I ask my husband if he feels the same way and he says “Of course.” I'm pretty sure he’s lying, but because I've have had 10 vodka sodas and only one mushroom cap, I accept it and move on. We party all night, go to bed at 6am, and wake up with the kids at 7:30am. I have lost both contacts, can barely walk, and feel like I might die without more sleep…

But at that moment, nothing really matters. Life is good, my brother is married, and I have a sister. I stumble into my bathing suit and put sunscreen on the kids. I will sleep another day…

Clegg and Kelli…thanks for an amazing weekend and an inspiring love affair…

Livin' in L.A

Now that I have lived in L.A. for almost 10 years, I am even more certain that everyone needs to spend time living on the East Coast. The East Coast is where you can get a real education, make life long friends, and learn that life, nor the weather, is always 70 degrees and sunny. The East Coast builds character, gives you confidence, and teaches you how to be normal. There is so much I miss about it…normal girls, size A breasts and most importantly, Chick-Filet. But despite all of this, I love living in LA.

To help you understand where I started, you need to know the girl I used to be. For most of my life, my “look” consisted of my hair in a high bun, grey XL sweatpants, and Old Navy flip-flops. My only make-up was maroon lipstick (exact shade - Revlon ‘Wine with Everything’), which I first picked up in 7^th grade at Rite Aid. I never really cared about how I looked and believed life was about competing, winning, and getting ahead. I am the type of girl who needed a few years in LA…just like the girls from Orange County need a summer at Dartmouth or Brown. Sometimes you just need to stretch yourself.

Ten years into my life in L.A., everything has changed. I no longer find it strange that my friends take their trash out (here we call it recycling) while wearing a push up bra, fake eyelashes, and 6-inch wedge sandals. To be honest, the garbage men out here expect it and nobody wants to let them down. When I first moved here, I was appalled by the fact that so many women had fake, size C, Barbie doll boobs. Now after two kids, numerous La Leche League meetings, and the fact that I have recently begun to turn myself off during sex, I have started to consider my options. Getting your boobs done in Southern California is just like getting braces in the South…it's the thing to do. The truth is that I would be under the knife right now if I wasn’t afraid of two things:

1. That I could die during surgery and leave my kids motherless…simply because I wanted to fill out the top of my new Target bathing suit.

2. My husband would want to have more sex with me.

Number two is the one that keeps me up at night. If you don’t know my husband, let me explain. He is a very special man…he always tells me he loves me and makes me feel beautiful each day. The other night I asked him, “Hey Honey, do you think I should get my boobs done?” He looked me right in the eyes and said, “No baby, you are beautiful just the way you are.” I felt so loved. I gave him a hug and started to walk out the room. As I was about to close the door, he gently touched my arm and quickly said “But if YOU want to do it, I ABSOLUTELY understand. I think what is most important is that I am completely supportive of you. Do you need me to wire the money or should I just write you a check?”

At this point we are at a stand still with that surgery…but it hasn’t stopped me from looking into other shallow, unnecessary procedures. After recently looking at my face in the mirror, (which is highly encouraged in LA… self obsession is considered healthy here) I realized the years of baking in the Florida sun while spraying Sun-in on my hair have caused some problems. So I talked to my friend, who sell lasers to dermatologists, and asked him what I could do. He told me he thought I could benefit from an IPL laser treatment. When I asked whom I should go see he said, “Why would you pay a dermatologist $1200 for the treatments? I can just do it for you in our garage.” The other benefit of living in L.A. is that everyone is in sales, and whatever they are selling, they are happy to share. So I put aside the fact he had been selling sofas and Ottomans’ a year ago, and trusted that his two week training (where he was most likely drunk for 80% of the time) would give him the skills he needed to make me beautiful.

Let me begin by saying that I do not have a high pain tolerance, especially when it comes to beauty procedures. I can barely stand to have my eyebrows waxed and once left a Brazilian Bikini wax with only one side completed. But I tried to be brave and trust that the pain wouldn’t last forever.

So last Wednesday night, with Scotty McCreery singing in the background, I walked into their garage, stepped over some wet laundry and took a seat on a hard, paint-splattered wooden chair. They charged up the laser, handed me some eye protectors, and rubbed cold gel on my face. After twenty minutes of experiencing what can only be described as intermittently holding a July 4^th sparkler to your face, they were finished. I looked in the mirror and my face was still there, my skin wasn’t burned, and the dark spots I had been noticing where lightening. My friend and his wife looked over their work, studied my face, and didn’t say a word. Eventually they smiled at one another, looked at me and said, “Okay, not bad. I’m pretty sure those settings were right. Don’t worry we’ll know more in a few days.” Some people just know how to make you feel safe...

So it’s official, for good or for bad, I am starting to become an L.A. girl…a bit shallow, self-consumed, and now totally (and thankfully) aware of the fact that sun damage is bad, blonde is good, and wearing Khakis is a crime. And even though I miss the East Coast terribly, it seems like L.A is home. I have so many great friends, we love our community, and there's a rumor that they may be building a Chick-Filet nearby very soon...somedays life just can't get any better.

Sports: The Silent Killer

When the Super Bowl ended last February, I found myself crying, feeling deeply emotional at the end of the game. Some people shed tears of joy because the Packers brought the Super Bowl Trophy home, while others shed tears because the people of Pittsburg were once again left disappointed. Yet my tears came from another place, and I believe those same tears were shed in homes all over America. My tears weren’t about a team winning or losing, who won the Fantasy Football league, or the fact that Christina Aguilera butchered the lines to God Bless America. Instead my tears were tears of relief…relief that I had somehow survived another football season without killing my husband.

At the time, I was sure the worst was over. Yet now, as the Final Four tournament comes to a close, I realize it may never end. I am filled with false hope that there may be light at the end of the tunnel. That one day soon, I might have my husband back. But then I remember, the Yankees season is about to start, and with 162 games ahead of me…things are not looking up.

Here’s the thing…I used to enjoy sports. In college, I loved putting on my best Old Navy jeans, a Carolina Blue t-shirt, and heading to the game with two airplane bottles of Jack Daniels stuffed in my bra. I loved the feel of the stadium, the roar of the crowd, and the cheesy music the band always played. After college, and even when we were first married, I loved watching sports, drinking Bloody Mary’s, and spending time with friends. But now that has all changed and there are a few things my friends and I need to understand.

Let’s title this section “Is it Okay?”

1. Is it okay to for a man to sit on a couch for 6 hours on a beautiful, sunny day, and watch grown men chase a ball while his wife cleans, cooks (not saying I cook but just in case there are women that do) and cares for his children…just like she did the other 5 days that week?

2. Is it okay for the T.V. volume in your home to be SO LOUD that you think your children may need to wear earphones in order to protect their ears from permanent and lasting damage?

3. Is it okay for your husband to go into a deep depression and be in a bad mood all week simply because his favorite team lost or his favorite wide receiver got injured during a game? (Remember: Husband’s ankle is fine...guy he has never met who makes 20 million a year, simply has a sprain.)

4. Is it okay that I feel guilty for taking a 30-minute walk by myself on a Saturday but husband feels fine about leaving for 6 hours because “This game is really important.” (What does really important mean? And just a reminder, you don’t watch only the championship games, you watch them all.)

5. Is it okay for a husband, who is now in trouble for not being with the kids, to say the following…“Hey Honey, why don’t you take a break, relax a little. I am going to take the kids (ages 3 and 5) to a bar to watch the game. Don’t worry, it’s early in the day and people won’t be wasted yet.” (Nate Chittick, March 26^th 2011 – UNC vs. Kentucky)

6. Is it okay for a man to turn on multiple T.V.s at 9am (living on the west coast is great, waking up to football analysis each morning…not so great) and say the reason he needs to watch is because it looks like he could win $300 in his Fantasy League? (Let’s be clear, he had a chance at winning $300 in the beginning...but after the $287 he spent in trades this season, his total possible earnings are more like $13).

7. Is it okay to watch an entire game which has been recorded, rewinded, and reviewed the whole time, and then WATCH ANOTHER FOUR HOURS OF SPORTS CENTER WHILE THEY DISCUSS THE EXACT SAME GAME YOU JUST WATCHED?

And the last and final question I have is the one I believe is most important:

8. Is it okay if I told my husband that The Bachelor was going to be on EVERY weekend from August to April. Each of those weekends, my friends were going to come over, drink cosmos, and squeal from 10 am to 7pm. I would tell him that each week is EXTREMELY important because you never know who is going to stay and who is going to go, it’s totally up in the air this year. Plus, we have a Fantasy Bachelor pool where each of us puts in $100 and bets on who we think will end up staying the longest (Obviously we also have a teaser worth over $500 if he actually proposes to your girl.) After each show, we will call, text, and Facebook each other about what happened on the show. There is so much to discuss...who kissed who, what they were wearing, and what crazy thing could happen next. Unfortunately when our girl doesn’t get picked or doesn’t get a date, we are not going to be able to have sex, clean, or do the laundry…only because we are terribly sad and depressed. Hopefully he will understand, because like his teams, we really love these girls and have been fans of theirs for a long time. Although we love our kids, we can’t really take care of them when the show is on because every date and rose ceremony is critical. If he wouldn’t mind taking the children outside or at least keeping them quiet so we could concentrate, it would be greatly appreciated. Lastly, when The Bachelor is over and he thinks I am done watching this craziness, I hope he remembers…The Bachelorette starts in 2 weeks and it will all begin again.

DISCLAIMER: (he makes me do this part) This blog is not JUST about my husband. There were other wives who had questions that needed answers. After reading this blog, my husband wants it to be clear, and I quote, "That other than taking the kids to the bar to watch our Alma Mater, where I graduated with honors, I will not accept responsibility for the character that has been painted. I love sports but I love my family more. Also, I would never make trades that cost me that much profit, I am a better business man than that." (Nate Chittick, April 4 2011 - Returning home at 11pm after watching the Final Four)

Scariest Place on Earth

Last week, my son and I were lying in bed, discussing the day. He had a lot of questions about gravity, Heaven, and other important things. As I was about to leave, he grabbed my arm and said with a serious face, “Mom, where is the scariest place on Earth?” I thought about it for a minute and without missing a beat I said, “Costco on a Sunday.”

Earlier that day my husband and I had made the horrible decision to run to Costco and get some things for a small family gathering we were having that afternoon. We should have known better; but sometimes the call of spinach artichoke dip and extra large shrimp platters are just too much.

To begin with, the parking lot was a disaster. Costco parking lots are scarier than a county fair in Alabama. The parking lot was filled with people doing the “slow stalk”…you know, when drivers spot someone who has barely left the store and proceeds to pull up a few feet behind them and tail them to their car. The poor souls leaving are forced to quickly find their car, unpack their stuff, and reverse back out of their spot before they are injured. Cars were everywhere, blinkers were blinking, horns were blaring and middle fingers were pointing...not exactly what Jesus had hoped for when he made Sunday a sacred day of rest. Eventually we found a spot, next to a woman unloading 60 cans of Raman Noodles, and we prepared to make our way into the store. My husband looked at me and said, “Let’s get in and get out.” I agreed, but unfortunately, we didn’t stand a chance.

We barely made it to the front door because the line for people buying $1 hot dogs and supersized soft serve ice cream was a mile deep. After wrestling the last remaining cart from a family of ten, we headed in to get what was on our list. All we planned on buying were a package of little sausages, 3 dips, a shrimp platter, and 2 ready to cook pizzas. But somewhere along the journey, the wheels came off.

From the start, the electronic section distracted my husband and caused him to lose his focus. He kept wandering off to look at new flat screen TV’s, digital cameras and laptop computers. I tried to get him back on track so we could keep moving forward but suddenly we got stuck. There were people everywhere and we couldn’t move at all. I didn’t know what the hold up was until I suddenly heard a man on the microphone yelling:

“THIS SHAKE HAS MORE ANTIOXIDENTS THAN A BOWL FULL OF SPINACH! LOOK HOW EASY IT IS TO MAKE! JUST THROW THE WHOLE CARROT, APPLE, AND ORANGE IN THE BLENDER AND VOILA, YOU’RE DONE. A HEALTHY, EASY, AND VERY TASTY SNACK! COME ON UP AND GET A SAMPLE!”

By the length of the line in front of us, you would have thought we were at a Refugee camp in Africa, people elbowing each other and waiting for hours. Either these people didn’t know they were about to receive a 1-inch white bathroom cup filled with a half a sip of a smoothie or they didn’t care. When the new batch was made, they pushed and shoved their way up as if it was the last meal they would ever have. It was vicious…it was scary…it was America at its best.

Of course, it didn’t stop there. There were samples all over the store causing bottlenecks and traffic jams. Every sample station was full of customers waiting patiently for 15 to 20 minutes as women, wearing hair nets and probably named Bertha, slowly reheated and passed out things such as Mexican Taquitos, fish sticks, and bagel bites. More than once I heard them say, “Please only take one sample per person” and someone would answer, “Is it okay if I get this one for my friend?” No, its not okay…none of it was okay.

After about 30 minutes we had everything we needed and were ready to head out the door. But then I saw something hanging from the ceiling. It was an above ground pool that I thought the kids would just love. “Honey, do you think the kids would like a pool?” I asked. My husband looked at me and said “Don’t you think there is something fundamentally wrong about buying a pool in the same place we just bought Rotisserie chicken and ground beef.” We avoided that purchase but unfortunately found ourselves buying many things we didn’t need. At one point when we were debating if we needed a tent, we knew we had gone to far. We don’t camp; we don’t plan on camping, and we barely even like the outdoors. Costco had taken us hostage and we needed to get out fast.

That’s when tragedy struck. There are a lot of bad things that can happen to you in Costco, you can spend too much money, buy stuff you don’t need, and wait an hour for one piece of greasy pizza. But nothing compares to the terror of running into someone you know. …

I have decided that when you are in Costco, you should act the same way you do in a locker room. Everyone should keep their eyes up, looking directly at people’s faces, and never EVER peering into someone else’s cart. Why? Because having someone look at what you have bought at Costco is similar to them seeing you naked, it is embarrassing and not pretty to look at.

Before I could turn and run, we spotted a couple we knew and they started to walk over. I didn’t have a chance to put back the giant box of tampons, three 3 large bottles of Vodka, or 2 cases of Cotonelle moist wipes. They were right there along with Rogaine Hair Replacement shampoo and an industrial size bottle of Astroglide. I tried to move the dips and chips to cover everything but it was too late. They looked at us, and then down at our cart, and back up at towards our faces. It wasn’t fair because all they had was milk, diapers, and a new DVD. How could they make us look so bad?

In the end we said the things you say to each other when you see people at Costco like “Wow, this place is really crowded” or “Looks like you’re having a party?” and “You can’t get out of here for less than $300!” After pretending that they didn’t see what we had, they turned and headed back to the meat section. We got in line, unloaded our goods, and waited for them to ring up our bill. As I tried to jam all our food into boxes, the cashier said, “Your total is $436.71. Also, your membership is up and it will be $100 to renew. Would you like to add that to your total?” Sure…why not. Put it on my bill and go ahead and put that above ground pool and tent on hold…we will be back next week to pick those up.

Birthday Parties

This weekend, I attended three children’s birthday parties. We went from Star Wars Jedi Training, to MY GYM, and closed out with a ‘make you own’ Organic Pizza Party. The kids loved it but I came away from it all exhausted, overwhelmed, and scared. I wanted to understand…how the Hell did we get here?

When I was a kid, I loved my birthday. I don’t remember anything extravagant about them…they were just simple and special. I would invite friends over and we would do things like make up dances to Michael Jackson and play Marco Polo in the pool for hours. Back in the old days, a few friends, a couple of gifts, and a cake was all you needed…not anymore.

Let’s start with parties for kids between the ages of 1-5. These little grubby people can barely walk, talk or use the bathroom by themselves…why in the world are we throwing them huge parties they will never remember? Are we afraid they won’t be happy if they don’t have specialty cupcakes and a humongous Princess Bouncy? Do we really think our two-year old is going to be sitting in their high chair, about to eat their Birthday cupcake, and suddenly say, “What the F*** is this? Is this store bought? Hell no! I’m not eating this crap!”

The truth is, the kids don’t care…at all.

So far this year, I have been to birthday parties with balloon guys, face painters, bouncy houses, portable petting zoos, hot dog carts, reptiles, fancy tea lunches, and Super Hero training. We have been to amusement parks, art zones, indoor playground, and ropes courses…and these are just for kids under 3!

Instead of kids having a creative moment for themselves, the new parent feels they must make sure every minute is accounted for. For example, let’s revisit the My GYM birthday party. At this party, two semi-cute college kids, who are obviously on meth and have been wait listed for hosting positions at Applebee’s, were responsible for entertaining our 20 kids for two straight hours. They spent the entire party chasing, lifting, dancing, singing, and jumping with a bunch of sugar-high children. The kids played on zip lines, jumped on trampolines, and threw plastic balls at each other’s face. The parents sat in the back and talked awkwardly while continuously checking their cell phones for emails or Facebook updates. Organic pizza, sugar-free Apple juice, and homemade Gluten free cupcakes were served.

The Star Wars party was even stranger. Three grown men, who I assume where dropped off by UFO, entered the party wearing tights, capes and other outfits no one over the age of 5 should ever be caught dead in. The kids were then taught how to speak, act, and fight like a Jedi Warrior. Many of the kids had a obvious and understandable fear of Dark Vadar and spent much of the party underneath their parents legs. The poor soul playing Luke, the only one not wearing a mask, was visibly embarrassed and probably went home and debated killing himself. From the look on his face, the performance in the community center was a low point in his life.

There was a constant theme at these parties…every minute is accounted for and every detail has been well planned out. Because I have always known I could never keep up, I have decided to take a different approach. For my son’s 5^th birthday, I took him and 2 of his friends to a fairly grubby, slightly nasty restaurant down the street. It wasn’t perfect, but it had a little arcade and when I gave those stinky boys $5 each, they were good to go. No clowns, no caterers, and no goody bags.

I don’t like telling people what I do for my kid’s Birthday’s because after sharing my plans with one mom she said, “That’s nice. Maybe you can do something really special and fun next year.” From now on, this is what I am going to say (in a heavy British accent) when asked what I am doing for my son’s birthday:

“My son’s birthday? Oh that little thing! Well, to begin, I have decided to invite every Kindergartner in Los Angeles, I just don’t feel comfortable only inviting the kids from his class. And instead of going to Chucky Cheese down the street, I have decided to rent a Lear Jet and we will be flying to a Chucky Cheese in Sweden…it’s never too early to expose children to other cultures. Lastly, I had planned on giving them bouncy balls in their goody bags, but what does that really teach them? Instead I will be giving them each Ipads, because as you know, they only turn 5 once!”

Having this answer makes me feel better. And when my kids say, “How come we never do cool stuff like this for my birthday?” I tell them the truth. “Kids, life is not always fair. You are turning 3 and 5... your party will be about playing hide-n-seek, tag, and hopscotch. It will be fun because we’ll sing Happy Birthday to you, you will get some gifts, and we may even let you choose the restaurant for dinner. Consider yourself lucky and remember…life is long, pace yourself.”