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.

Things that make you go hmmmmmm

I actually received an email questioning, “Why haven’t you written anything in the past few days?” I love my fan.

I could barely get out of bed, let alone type. I exercise on a daily basis, but my muscles are spent. Raking a million leaves will do that to you. Well, it will do that to you at my age.We got a little behind schedule with our Fall cleanup. Minutes after my husband started clearing the yard today the belt busted on the lawn mower. He insisted he could fix it. This is coming from the same man who “fixed” the oven door with scotch tape. He grabbed his tools. I grabbed a rake. Why can’t men just admit they can’t do something? I can’t pole vault. I can’t carve a bear out of wood with a chain saw. So, I won’t.

I was sweating profusely and cursing under my breath for about an hour until he finally admitted defeat and helped. I miss the (alleged) crackhead that used to rake our leaves. My husband paid this guy $40 to rake our entire yard. He looked like Sebastian Bach, but rolled up to our house on a ten speed. Forty bucks was a steal. There are a lot of trees out there. He could make more working in a sweatshop sewing articles of clothing for the Kardashians. I must give him props. This fella was a hard worker. The problem was he liked to rake topless. He would tear off his shirt and hang it on his belt loop. It was November in upstate New York. His long curly locks were usually tied back in a low ponytail. His nipples were as hard as his beer belly. Oh, what the neighbors must have thought.

Anyway, I do have a few things to share with y’all. File these under the “what the hell were they thinking?”

My daughter opened a Halloween bag this morning with an unusual treat. Yes, this morning. You have to pick your battles.

I would love to know the thought process behind this grab bag. Should we give pre-schoolers lollipops? No. Hershey Bars? Too messy. Skittles? Nah, too colorful. Let’s throw in a piece of candy flavored with alcohol.

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….and here is another

I scratch my head every time I drive by this road. The ‘road naming guy’ couldn’t come up with something else? Perhaps, he was drunk. I think his buddy suggested the name, they giggled and gave each other a high five. I would get a P.O. box if my house was on this street.

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Under the weather

I have been battling a head cold for three days. I don’t usually get sick. Then again, my 6-year-old son doesn’t usually sneeze on my face. He was mid-sentence, blew snot on my cheek and finished his thought, “and that’s why I think Batman would totally beat Superman in a fight.” Really? Really? You couldn’t pause to grab a tissue. That deep thought couldn’t wait 10 seconds?

A few days later I had the virus that took all three kids out last week. The only difference is nobody is taking care of me. I don’t get a day off. My daughter won’t even ride her tricycle to the store to buy Dayquil. She can be so incredibly selfish. You can’t play the ‘I am only 3′ card forever. My son offered to make me something to eat, but I didn’t want my house to burn to the ground. I can barely sleep in my own house, I wouldn’t catch a wink in a shelter. So, I have been doing everything and laying a guilt trip on my family. “I can barely hold my head up, but sure I will make you a grilled cheese sandwich.” I still had enough strength to laugh at this Louis CK bit. I swear (if he looked like Ryan Gosling) he is my soul mate.

 

Memorable Dessert

I have never quite understood the fascination with photo cakes.   You will eventually have to butcher someone you love.  Who wants to eat Grandpa’s ear?  Yet, time and time again I see them at parties.  I must admit they do taste good.  There is something about that damn butter cream frosting.  I ordered my son a Batman cake a few years ago that looked like something you would see on “Cake Boss.”  The characters were made with fondant. The attention to detail was amazing, but it tasted like the bottom of sneaker.  Well, what I assume the bottom of a sneaker would taste like.

Here is a memorable dessert.  A mother in Indiana ordered a graduation cake for her daughter.  She wanted a “small cap”  on her daughter’s head.  The person who took the order heard something completely different.  The result is fantastic.

 

Poor Bieber

Justin Bieber (i before e, except after c) celebrated his 19th birthday this past weekend. It seems like just yesterday he was singing about me plus you. I’ma tell you one time, kids grow up fast. Now, Bieber is wearing his pants below his derrière, smoking weed (allegedly) and wooing the ladies.

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I don’t care how much that kid is making. His Mom needs to whoop his a**. Pull your trousers up son! I dare my children to make this fashion statement. They wouldn’t leave the house.

The Biebs may be one step closer to the legal drinking age, but he is still a whiner. Bieber complained on Twitter how he had the worst birthday ever. (Wiping away a tear) The gossip sites pointed out how the pop star spent his birthday in London, eating expensive food and buying designer clothing. The best part of this story on Gawker.com were the reader comments. As an F-you to Bieber, people shared their own worst birthday stories. They range from a guy spending his birthday at the hospital with his baby’s Mama who overdosed on morphine to a girl who got her a** kicked by her own brother on her big day. (Cue: Debbie Downer music) My favorite was this (and if you get the joke you are officially cool in my book) :

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Germ Buster

My son came home from school and demonstrated the proper hand washing technique. The school nurse visited their classroom and gave a lesson on how to be Germ Busters. The same child who complains daily about going to school loves pretending to be a teacher. He squirted two pumps of soap in his hand, lathered it between his fingers and asked, “Do we rinse our hands now?” He cut me off before I could speak. He didn’t really want an answer. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Say it together. No. We. Don’t.” Really? This is turning into a game of Simon Says? “No. We. Don’t,” I echoed slowly. His hands will be clean, but my water bill is going to skyrocket. He also discussed why we cover our mouth and nose when sneezing or coughing. Plus, they learned what foods to eat to stay healthy.

Then, he dried his hands on my shirt (the towel was two whole steps away) and said, “Mom, the nurse needs to realize we can’t be Germ Busters. We are just kids. Gosh, we are just kids.” He acted like she was sending him off to war. Kudos to the nurse for her preemptive strike against winter’s cold viruses. However, you can’t stop Mr. Freeze. I am going to the store today to stock up on tissue and cold medicine.

CynicalMother.com

Dinosaur Days

I have been an emotional wreck lately. Sure, some of my instability can be blamed on hormones. However, it also has a lot to do with the fact that my baby will soon turn 13. I will be the mother of a teenager.

It really started to sink in over the past few days while cleaning the basement. I came across a huge bin of dinosaurs. My son loved every kind of dinosaur. He knew everything about them. I can easily say we had hundreds of dinosaur toys. As I picked up each toy I could see him crouched on the kitchen floor, a Tyrannosaurus in one hand and a Brachiosaurus in another. I could hear his high pitched voice roaring as he banged the dinosaurs together. I have been holding on to these toys for years, but it is time to clean house. As hard as I tried, I could not freeze time. He is growing up whether I like it or not.

I gathered a small container of dinosaurs to keep. They may never get played with again. Perhaps, I will pull them out every few years and reminisce. I am sure he will laugh at me and, like he did tonight, say “Mom get rid of those.” I can’t. He is almost as tall as me. His voice is deeper. We have adult conversations, but I still hear a 4-year-old. I cannot let go completely. I never will. In my mind he will always be the little boy playing with dinosaurs on the kitchen floor.

After I wrote this post a friend linked this article on Facebook. It is beautifully written and on point. Have a box of tissues handy. You will need them.

A Letter to Future Me: Remember How Much You Loved Them