If you get a call from me but it’s just a lot of heavy breathing, sorry. My 8 month old daughter got a hold of my phone & hit redial.
Dear Ben and Jerry’s,
I’m writing in response to the nutrition information printed on your 1-pint carton of creme brulee ice cream. The nutrition panel indicates that there are four servings per container. However, I found only two servings in my container. You may want to audit your quality assurance check to ensure that each and every container provides the promised four servings.
Lesson for today? Never walk and attempt to drink coffee at the same time.
I’m pretty sure that the serving size for Thin Mints is not “One sleeve.” But lunch sure was yummy.
Purely hypothetical question:
If you are at Barnes & Noble with your baby, and your baby suddenly and unexpectedly starts projectile vomiting, are you supposed to a) seek out a store manager to let them know and apologize profusely, or b) race out of the store to minimize any more barfage?
After a nearly sleepless night, during which baby slept no more than one continuous hour at a stretch, with long droughts of zero sleep in between, I was racking my sleep-deprived brain for things to do with baby today. I don’t really have any friends with babies nearby, so I can’t just call on one of them to hang out at their place. I’ve been on walk after walk after walk and it’s not even 10 a.m. Plus it looks like it’s going to rain any second. The malls don’t open til 11 and I don’t have any money anyway, even though they are indoor spaces to walk gawk at people. The zoo and the desert botanical garden are outrageously expensive, and given that baby is sick, we would probably have to forfeit most of a visit anyway, so I don’t feel like that expense is justified.
And that’s when My Better Half™ said “You know what is indoors and has free babysitting and is open this time and is free? Church!” Note to self: gotta find out timing of nearby church services for next Sunday. I think if I time it right, I could go from one service to the next, drop baby in babysitting for each service, and get in two naps! Followed by donuts.
I’m still at this weeklong workshop for work, and the meeting room has been consistently frigid all week. It’s not abnormal for me to be cold, so I would chalk it up to my own internal thermostat, except the chick from University of Alaska just left the room to go grab her jacket. So, yeah, it’s cold in here.
Last night was the annual Westminster Dog Show, and while I love dogs, I don’t love the event. The whole idea of a “purebred” just leaves a bad taste in my mouth. My three dogs are all rescue dogs, and that’s all I would ever have, so the idea that people would pursue some idealized neurotic purebred rather than rescue a well-deserving, loving, smart, athletic fuzzermuffin from their local shelter is beyond comprehension.
But there is something I do love about watching the event: the handlers’ complete lack of fashion. When they show the dogs, you see the calves and shoes of the handler walking or trotting alongside the dog, and THAT provides pure, unadulterated entertainment. It is a parade of the worst shoes ever and the most unflattering skirts anyone could ever find. I don’t have any idea where these people find those ugly-ass shoes, the skirts that hit mid-calf (cause that’s a flattering length on anyone!), or the ghastly spectrum of taupe stockings. Sure, this is a high society event, so I guess the handlers are conforming to some conservative unstated dress code in an (unsuccessful) attempt blend into the background. But just because you gotta dress conservative and be prepared for running doesn’t mean you have to look terrible. It’s like they try hard to be as frumpy as possible. I feel like I dress pretty conservatively – I’m not into showing a lot of skin, but even I know that a skirt that hits mid-calf doesn’t look good on anybody, especially when paired with a no-nonsense vinyl orthotic sneaker disguised as a flat. It’s not like you don’t have time to prepare. Learn how to jog in a short heel, or at least visit Zappos to find some attractive flats. Order 20 pairs and send back the ones that fit poorly or turn out to be ugly as sin – that’s what it’s there for! Then get on a treadmill with your selected pair and practice, practice, practice. Not only will that help you get used to moving in real shoes, it’ll also give your calves some shape. And then you can show off your athletic calves in a pencil or A-line skirt, rather than that fuddy-duddy sh*t you call a skirt.
Today I went to a workshop for work, and at the beginning we received an agenda that gave a run down of the day – the morning sessions lasted until noon with one break, and then after an hour for lunch, the afternoon’s sessions would last til 5:00. By the last morning session, I found it really hard to focus. I was sleepy, hungry, distracted by the woman Facebooking in front of me, and tuning out all the really dry material. I began counting down the minutes until lunch. And boy, did those minutes pass slowly. By 11:58, I was ready to bolt for lunch, but the presentation went over. At the end of it, at 12:17, they asked for any questions from the audience, and I thought “Please, no questions, no questions, no questions…” I just wanted some caffeine and lunch. And I had to figure out somewhere to pump and fit that in some where in the lunch break, without being rude or strangely abrupt to whoever I would end up sitting and networking with. So I was praying nobody asked questions that required us all to sit there politely and behave.
Once lunch ended, the afternoon sessions began, and the first presentation went by pretty fast, so I was surprised that break time was upon us so soon again after lunch. But then they just dove right into the next topic and presentation with no mention of the scheduled afternoon break. I thought I must’ve been mistaken about the timing of the afternoon break, so I checked the agenda again, and looked at my phone, and sure enough, we were supposed to have had a break 20 minutes ago. I glanced around, no one else seemed antsy, so I figured, Sweet! We’ll get out of here 30 minutes early! I can get home earlier, spend at least 10 minutes with baby before she taps out, and not have to pump in the resort’s bathroom stall again.
But that second afternoon session was extremely boring, and just kept getting more and more off-track with anecdotes and, since they’d taken away the coffee after lunch, I found it harder and harder to stay awake, focus, and listen to anything with any interest. I looked at my email, popped onto IM, did some web surfing, and still, only 10 more minutes had passed. That session had slowed to a crawl. I must not have been the only one totally distracted and disinterested because the next thing I hear is “You guys look zonked. We were supposed to have a break earlier, but let’s take it now and regroup. So, how about we take a break, regroup in 30, and then we’ll go til 5:30, ok?”
No, no, no, no, no. Ever since I read that agenda this morning and saw that we’d be wrapping up no later than 5:00, I had been anxiously awaiting 5:00. So, no. I am NOT staying til 5:30. I am tired, the coffee surreptitiously disappeared right after lunch, there’s no more caffeine around here, and staying til 5:00 is going to take every ounce of patience and focus that I brought for the day. Or, if you would rather hear the unfiltered response from my brain, “Do you really expect us to sit here an extra half hour today? Let’s just plow on through and get out of here early as planned. That agenda? It’s more like a contract, and you will NOT fuck with my expectation of getting out of here at 5:00. My boobs are going to explode, I’m sleepy as shit and there’s no Diet Coke, no coffee, and my phone can only entertain me so much longer before I run out of here screaming, so no. No, no, no, no, no. NO!”
I spent the day with a 6 year old. At one point, he came in from the back yard, where My Better Half™ was working on the pond, to say “It’s soooo boring out there.”
Me: “Yeah, well, I hate to tell you, but being an adult is often boring.”
Him: “Yeah, I know. There’s lots of cleaning involved.”