Bad boys, bad boys…

I got pulled over this morning by a cop on a bike.  This was not an episode of “Chips.”  He was on a bicycle.  A police officer on a mountain bike  stopped me in my vehicle.   He made the siren noise with his mouth.   No, not really, but that would’ve been funny.  I was at a stop sign, about six cars from the crosswalk, waiting for the crossing guard to guide some young lads to the other side.   When I grow up I want the confidence of a crossing guard.   She has no fear.   She wears that neon jacket with pride and stops cars like a boss.  Of course, elementary school children don’t care about the long line of cars waiting for them to pass.   They have no sense of time which is why 90% of a parent’s time is spent telling them to put on their shoes.  I knew these kids were going to practically crawl across the street. So, I allegedly grabbed my phone  to send a quick text to arrange a ride home for my son.  It was at that moment that a police officer pedaled up to the passenger’s side window.   I smiled.  He did not.  Erik Estrada would have grinned.   Instead, he motioned for me to put down the window.  He actually made a circular motion with his hand.   Clearly, he grew up in the 80s. As the window was ‘winding down’ he barked orders,   “You need to pull over!”  I thought he was kidding.  “Seriously?”   He was  a drill sergeant on a Schwinn.  “I am serious ma’am, pull over!”   Okay, now I was pissed.  Not only was I going to be late to work, but he just ma’am-ed me?  People driving by were laughing and pointing.

This is an artist rendering of the traffic stop:

A friend sent me this text message.

The conversation with the police officer went like this….

Me:   “You don’t have anything better to do than stop a mom in a minivan,” I said.  I have a habit of not knowing when to shut up.  “When you are done with this why don’t you peddle over to the known drug houses in town and arrest actual criminals.” 


Officer
: “License and registration, please.” 


Me:  “You have got to be kidding me!  I wasn’t even moving.  You are on a bicycle. You were stopped right next to me.   Just so you know, I am going to take a picture of your bike and we will see how this holds up in court.”


I had diahrea of the mouth.  Honestly, I would have been in the wrong if I was doing what he alleged. I respect and appreciate the hard work of the men and women in law enforcement. I didn’t know this is the law in New York State :

  • An operator of a commercial motor vehicle who holds a portable electronic device in a conspicuous manner while such vehicle is temporarily stationary because of traffic, a traffic control device, or other momentary delays is presumed to be using the device


At the same time, that was a ‘nickname for Richard’ move on his part.  He ran my license over his walkie talkie.  In the end, he did not give me a ticket.  Maybe he didn’t have any in his fanny pack.  He warned me to drive carefully and hopped  on his bike.   He actually stood as he pedaled away.  He didn’t even pop a wheelie. You are no Erik Estrada, sir.  

Funny farm

I am not perfect.  I know, it may come as a shock to many of you.  I forget things.  If you ask my children’s teachers they will tell you that I forget a lot of things.  I just remembered that I signed up to be chaperone for a school field trip to a farm.  I’m sure that is real comforting for the parents of the children I will be guiding around a large tractor and hay bailer.  Perhaps, I blocked out the trip because of the location. Don’t get me wrong,  I appreciate a hard working farmer.  I appreciate food that comes from farms, but why in the hell would I volunteer to chaperone a trip to a farm in June?  I am sweating just thinking about it.

I don’t sweat because I am morbidly obese.  It’s the hormones.  Millie Vanilli blamed it on the rain.  I blame it on the hormones.  Don’t get me wrong, I won’t be walking the runway anytime soon.  (Apparently, it’s not a good idea to eat handfuls of candy in bed minutes before you fall asleep.)  Nor will I be a hand model.  I have a crooked finger.  I broke my pinkie moving a couch.   It’s a long story.  Do you have time?  Actually, to summarize, I was moving the couch with someone, got mad and said, “I will do it myself.”  My finger thought that was a bad idea.   I race my children to urgent care when they sneeze.   I would duct tape my own limb before scheduling an appointment  with the doctor.  I don’t have the time.  So, I went to a drug store and bought a splint.  It turns out doctors go to medical school for a reason.  This is how it healed:

I should see a doctor to reset it, but the idea of intentionally breaking a finger sounds worse than an annual gynecological exam and that doctor uses what looks like BBQ tongs in your vagina.  (Take a minute process that one gentleman.  Yes, we earn the right to complain.) I suppose it could be worse.  I could be ‘the kid with the baby foot hand.’  Who is that you ask?  A co-worker (who shall remain nameless, but simply adores me) shared the story today of ‘the kid with the baby foot hand.’ No, this isn’t a Stephen King novel.  He went to school with ‘the kid with the baby foot hand.’  My co-worker claims it is true and he is a trustworthy guy.  Apparently, ‘the kid with the baby foot hand’ was injured by a lawn mower as a toddler.  He lost his foot and the hand was beyond repair. According to the story, the doctor sewed his baby foot on to his arm.   So, he grew to be ‘the teenager with a baby foot hand’ and eventually ‘the man with the baby foot hand.’  I would imagine one would relive that traumatizing day every time he opens an app with a baby toe.  I am skeptical and rightly so.    Perhaps, it was just a tall tale made up by a child born with a deformity.  If that is the case, that kid is brilliant and has a good sense of humor. If the story is legit then the doctor who performed the surgery needs to be sent to the ‘funny farm’ and I won’t be volunteering for that field trip.

Rock, paper, scissors 

I have a new hatred for the paper gowns at a doctors office.  I sat in an exam room with an 8-year-old patient for 45 minutes.   My son was scheduled for a checkup.  It would have been a stress-free appointment had it not been for the constant rustling of the gown.    Like most children, he cannot sit still.   It’s no secret that I suffer from Misophonia.  A crisp apple can send me over the edge.   Being in a 10 x 10 room with a child in a paper gown is pure torture.  I was on the verge of ripping the damn thing off him when the doctor strolled in like she wasn’t nearly an hour behind schedule.   I wanted to scream,  “Where the hell have you been?”  I bit my tongue.

There are a lot of things I would change about a doctor’s office beginning with the music.   I don’t expect the pediatrician to play Wu-Tang Clan, but enough with the Soft Rock.   Even Phil Collins doesn’t want to hear A Groovy Kind of Love anymore.  It only makes the time drag and conjures up bad memories of middle school.  I was like countless teenage girls who sat in their rooms in the late 80s crying over a boy while listening to Phil Collins on a cassette player. You didn’t play a Phil Collins song to get pumped for the big game or when using your thigh master.  Phil helped you cry it out.

I could also do without the broken toys, books that are missing pages and magazines from 1998 in the waiting room.   Take my $35 co-pay and renew your subscription.  Furthermore, if you’re going to have a tv on the wall put some cartoons on it.   Watching a busty anchor read an infomercial on heartburn medicine isn’t a good distraction for a child who is about to get a flu shot.  She is almost as annoying as a paper gown.  Almost.

Guessing Game

I am convinced my children were game show hosts in a past life.   They are constantly making me guess things, but there is never a prize.  Every statement begins with one question: “Guess what?”  I am at a disadvantage. I would have to be the ‘Long Island Medium’ to guess correctly and that’s impossible because my curling iron retired in the 1990s.

I recently jotted down some of the interesting things that followed after my children said, “Guess what?”  Well, that’s a lie.  I didn’t jot anything.  Who jots anymore? We keep notes on our phones.   ‘I typed on my phone’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.   Anyway, here are a few of my favorites:

“Guess what?” …..

“What?”  (Children will speak out of turn on a regular basis, but they won’t finish a sentence unless you say ‘What’ until you are blue in the face)
….. “The caterpillar hatched at school.”  

How the hell was I supposed to guess that?  A minute ago we were talking about the character you unlocked on Lego Batman.  Plus, I thought caterpillars were cut from the Common Core curriculum.  

“Guess what?   (While eating dinner) ….. You have silver hairs on top of your head.”

Tell me something I don’t know kid.  

“Guess what?  (While playing with the Barbie Dream House)  …..  This Barbie’s mom is dead.  She wasn’t nice. ”  

Is she threatening me?  Did she see this tactic on an episode of the Sopranos? 


“Guess what?  ….. I slept in the corner of my bed.”

Damn it, I was going to guess you slept in the middle.  It’s a good thing I didn’t place any money on that bet.  



“Guess what? …... I just burped and it tasted like the cheese I had for lunch”

 I  believe that is why the hashtag “TMI” was invented.  


“Guess what? ……  I don’t really like those meatballs”

I could never have guessed that judging by the tantrum you threw 30 minutes ago when I told you I was making spaghetti and meatballs.  Well, guess what?  I don’t like cooking them.  How about we do a little experiment where you try to survive off the land?  


“Guess what? ……. I ate the grapes you packed in my lunch today.”

Well, I didn’t pack it as a decoration.  I am pleased.  Especially since I found out you throw out most of the food in your lunch box.   Let’s skip the middleman and I will throw my paycheck directly in the garbage can every two weeks.  I don’t mind that I’m using my Botox funds to buy overpriced snacks that go to waste.

 
“Guess what? ….. “Doug” (withholding child’s actual name to protect myself)  got a red card today.”  


Was he playing soccer or misbehaving?   I would never have guessed that because I don’t know “Doug.”  I couldn’t pick him out of a line up and judging by his behavior that may be a possibility one day.  


“Guess what?….. someone got mud on the floor in the hallway at school.”

I  hope they launch an investigation and find the criminal responsible. 

Podcast

Here is another podcast for your listening pleasure. I am not pretending to be Howard Stern. It’s a work in progress.  I celebrate small victories. For example, I finished this podcast without a single child asking for food.  My children want a snack minutes before a meal begins and seconds after a meal ends.  I am convinced they have tapeworms.

clickhere

Tube socks and other pressing issues

I used to be a TV news reporter. I wore a lot of make up. It was like plaster. I don’t wear much anymore. (#LOOKATYOUROWNRISK) In this vlog you will see every nook and cranny. That’s life. I’ve earned each and every line. (….but #WILLWORKFORBOTOX) My mouth sparkles. Growing up, I went to a dentist in a town with one traffic light. He brushed my teeth and billed the insurance company. The end. I had better equipment in my play set at home. So, I got a few cavities. Back then, if you fixed the problem, you looked like Lil’ Wayne. (if he were poor) The fillings were silver. Nobody thought it was a good idea to have fillings that match your tooth? Nobody? Anyway, here is another video blog.

Sticks and stones

I drive a minivan. I fought it for the longest time. I crammed my children into a SUV because I wasn’t going to be that mom. I was still cool. With the right Spanx and a little Botox I was still hot. Then, for the same reason people wear elastic pants I got a van. I wanted to be comfortable. I am comfortable when my kids are not arguing. If they couldn’t touch each other there would be less fighting. “His elbow is in my spot.” His elbow is connected to his arm. There is nothing I could do about that except get a vehicle with more space. I fell madly in love with my minivan. I have also memorized dozens of movies that I have never actually seen.

I’m not embarrassed of my ride. Well, that is not always true. I was humiliated today. I was walking to my van after a doctors visit. I made an appointment because I have  had a weird sensation that something was stuck in my throat.  I am convinced that the people who edit WebMD are former soap opera writers.   They are constantly trying to kill me off.   It turns out it was what’s called a tonsil stone. Yeah, it is as disgusting as it sounds. It is like a kidney stone on your tonsil.  I hear anybody can get them. At least that is what my friends tell me when we meet for the early bird specials.

I was walking to my car when I saw a handsome man step out of a BMW.  I may have stones, but I was rocking a new pair of shoes and looked damn good. He noticed. I got to the minivan, but kept on walking. I don’t know why I cared what this person thought, but I did. It was nice to have someone who didn’t look like a troll pencil topper check me out. It rarely happens when I am wearing Bermuda shorts and sneakers. So, I made a split-second decision to strut to the end of the parking lot and swing back around to the van.  He would be gone.  I would look cool.  That was the plan.   Unfortunately, my sexy shoe got stuck in a small pothole. I never win anything valuable, but I hit the ‘unlucky bastard lottery’ once a week. My ankle twisted and I stumbled forward, arms failing. I didn’t hit pavement, but my confidence went crashing down as I limped back to my minivan.

Viral videos

Here are a few of my favorite viral videos posted on “The Facebook” today. A party isn’t a party until the DJ plays “Baby Got Back.”

…and this one is sure to cure those Monday blues. This video is funny because these people cannot get off the float. Is there ever a graceful way to get down from an inner tube? The answer is no. There is also no way for an adult to maintain their dignity going down a children’s slide. I made the mistake of taking my daughter to a playground this past weekend after a wedding. I become a Crash Test Dummy whenever we visit the park. I have to go down a slide first to prove it’s safe. This time I was wearing a dress. Halfway down the dress shifted and my a** cheek made contact with the plastic bringing me to a complete, painful stop. I had to lift and scoot, lift and scoot until I got to the bottom. “I am not going on that,” my daughter said.