My eyes hurt. So, I close them.
But I still see you.
And what you’re doing.
Underneath your smoke and mirrors.
Underneath your shiny veneers.
Underneath your magic tricks.
And I may kiss the boo boos of butterflies.
And ride to the moon with Buzz and Woody.
And sing alligators to sleep.
But I still see you.
And what you’re doing.
Even though my eyes hurt. And I’ve closed them.
Reichen: “Oh. Let’s not talk about that.”
What my 3 year old said after I asked him to tell his dad why he had to sit in time out today.
The plot of Sex and the City 2 may not be worth the price of admission, but you know what is: the decor of Carrie and Big’s New York apartment. It’s totally worth it. Totally.
It used to be fun at the end of every class waiting in line with all the other ladies soaked in sweat until she arrived, The Stamp Nazi. She stands behind the gym desk, clutching the ladybug stamp while scouring each and every one of us who pour out of the 9:30am cycling class. Her eyes bob back and forth snapping mental pictures of participants so when we reach the front of the line, hand her our cards, and ask her to stamp them, she knows exactly who deserves one and who doesn’t. But apparently, her system is flawed.
“You didn’t take class today,” she squints her eyes at me and scowls.
“Yes, I did,” I say surprised.
The Stamp Nazi gives me the evil eye before yelling for the aerobic instructor who taught the morning routine, “INGRID!!! Did she take class today?”
“Yes, she took class today,” the instructor says stifling a snicker.
“Oh. I guess this time I’ll give you a stamp,” she grits her teeth while pushing down a little lady bug on my card.
The woman behind me, however, not so lucky.
“Can I have two ladybugs, please? I took a class yesterday and I forget to get my card stamped,” she explains.
“Ummmm, I don’t think so,” The Stamp Nazi snaps. “You can only receive a stamp on the day you take class.”
After asking around, I discover The Stamp Nazi is the head of the aerobics department at the club. And apparently, her duties include hassling members out of ladybugs.
“This side of the card is full. I can’t give you another stamp,” I overhear her scolding another member. “I guess, you’ll have to wait until next month for more stamps.”
Let me explain: the gym I attend has a fitness rewards program, which means members receive points for various things such as referring new members or taking an aerobics class. After accruing an impossibly unreachable amount points, you can actually cash them in for gifts you’ll never wear enjoy such as this tank top.
According to the club’s fitness rewards website, this tank top will cost you 1250 points. Do you know how many points you get per ladybug stamp? 10. That’s it. You only get 10 points per ladybug stamp. That means I need 125 lady bug stamps to earn that crappy awesome tank top.
THAT’S 125 AEROBICS CLASSES!!!
Now, if I take 2 or 3 classes a day and get 2 or 3 ladybug stamps a day (which I could never do, by the way, because I would die if I worked out that much. Literally.), I could probably earn enough points to get that tacky impressive tank top in 3 or 4 months.
But get this: the club only allows you to turn in 20 ladybug stamps per month. The card you hand in on the last day of every month, (because, according to The Stamp Nazi, if you turn it in on the 1st day of the following month your ladybugs no longer count) is only worth 100 points. And that’s if you fill up your entire card. That means it’s going to take me 12 1/2 months to get this sucky stunning tank top.
12 1/2 MONTHS!!!
I guess, I’m confused. I mean, it was so nice and fun when the aerobics instructors who actually taught the classes stamped our cards for us. Why does The Stamp Nazi feel the need to now stand at the desk, swing her stamp, and interrogate ladies about ladybugs? I mean, I’ve overheard her telling members some are ‘taking advantage’ of the fitness rewards system and giving themselves an extra stamp here and there.
But seriously, who cares?
Even if you steal a couple extra stamps every month, you’ll never earn enough for that atrocious amazing tank top. Never.
Put the ladybug down, Stamp Nazi. Enough is enough.
Enough. Is. Enough.
You know when you’re scouring Sephora for the perfect lipstick, one sheer, but not too sheer; one berry colored, but not too berry colored; one that lasts, but one that doesn’t last too long? And you know how you’re so thrilled after trying shade, after shade, after shade, and then you find ‘it;’ when you find ‘the one?’ And you know how super excited you are when you buy every tube in the store because you just never know when Sephora will stop stocking your new perfect shade?
Yeah, that’s totally how super excited I was when I opened an e-mail last week from Devon. The graphic designer and fellow blogger contacted me after reading a few bits of my bloggity blog blog and asked if she could design a cute mommy business card for me. My reply: H-E-double-HOCKEY-STICKS to the YEAH! Um, I mean like she had to ask? And LOOK!!!
How cute is that? That’s Latham hanging out on the Left and Reichen kicking it on the right. And just in case you didn’t realize, that’s totally me in the middle. I think it’s so sweet!
And after seeing the card, I asked Devon if she could add my oldest child husband, David to the mix and make me a header for the 3 Stinky Boys and Me blog. And a few days later, I got another awesome e-mail containing exactly that.
Thank you so much Devon! You made me more happy than discovering the most perfect shade of lipstick.
How awesome are these zipper adorned wedges from Piperlime? I mean, who doesn’t want to add five inches of fun to their frame? And the rich cognac color is so yummy. The only problem: I think I’d break a bone if I bought them.
For months, I’ve been hunting for a summer hat for my huge head. And today, not only did I find a straw fedora, I found a straw fedora that fits!
I have to tell you something. And I really don’t want to. It’s so embarrassing. I mean, it’s so mortifying, I’d even rather tell you about the extra teeny, tiny nail on each of my pinkie toes.
Um, yeah. I have 12 toenails and only 10 toes.
In fact, if there were a traveling cirucs in this day and age which featured freak shows, I’m pretty sure I could make a lucrative living displaying my 12 toenails in the booth between the rubber man and the bearded lady.
Although I’m not an official member of the freak show circus, sometimes I feel like I am. My husband thinks it’s so hilarious that I have 12 toenails, he tries to get me to show them off at parties whenever possible. However, it’s usually after he’s had a drink or two, or five.
But that’s another embarrassing story for another embarrassing post.
What this embarrassing post is really about: me and my tumultuous relationship with cell phones.
Do you remember when I dropped my phone in a Lean Cuisine 5 months ago? Just click here and and you can read all about it.
Do you remember when my phone was stolen from Target 6 weeks ago? Just click here and you can read all about that time, too.
Now that you’re all caught up on my cell saga, I’m ashamed to say, I’ve done it again. It happened today after my dad decided he wanted a drink of water. He’s in town this week visiting me and my family and we were on our way home from the airport when he said he needed a swig of something to choke down a couple Tylenol.
So, I’m all, ‘why don’t you just suck up some of your spit and swallow them?’
And he’s all, ‘No, I can’t do that.’
So, I’m all, ‘C’mon, dad! You can too do that. I do it all the time.’
And he’s all, ‘No!!!’
So, I totally blame my father for the ensuing chain of events.
We’re in the car and pull through a fast food joint for a cup of water. And since my dad loves to chew ice like cows chew cud (not that that doesn’t drive me absolutely insane or anything), he removes the lid of his drink as soon as he gets it, gulps down his medicine and sets the half full, lidless cup in the car cup holder.
I know, I know, that’s where people set their drinks in the car. I do it all the time. But here’s the thing: that’s also where I always set my cell phone.
Always.
My dad shrieked and fumbled for the phone as soon as I plopped it in the lidless liquid. I just stared at him in disbelief and laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.
Not the ‘oh my gosh, that’s so funny,’ kind of laugh. It’s the kind of laugh that comes out of a crazy person who slams herself against a padded wall for hours while singing Row, Row, Row Your Boat.
So tomorrow, I get to go to the Sprint store and tell the guy I need another phone because I dropped mine in a cup off water. And since I have insurance, he’ll look up my number and realize it’s my 3rd phone in 5 months. That should be a fun conversation.
Do you think he’ll feel sorry for me if I tell him I have 12 toenails?
I’m going to try it.
You said we’d get married the first day you met me
I laughed really loud and thought you were crazy.
‘Just wait and you’ll see,’ you told me so sweetly
Right then and right there I believed you completely.
You took me to movies, concerts, and lots of late dinners
I learned you were funny, liked pizza, and snow in the winters.
I showed you my everything: good, bad, and ugly
And the night you proposed, I felt so truly lucky.
We got married on the beach, it was the best day of my life
I felt so incredibly special when the pastor called me your wife.
It was 7 years ago today that we said our ‘I dos’
And you know the best part: when we added to our crew.
You’re the most amazing daddy to our two little boys
You hug them, and love them, and play with their toys.
We’ve always fit so well, even right from the start
And I’ve never once regretted giving you my heart.
Happy Anniversary David, we can do anything together
I’m so excited to spend my life with you, now and forever.
The summer issue of Lonny is here and it’s so delicious that you need to grab your knife and fork this second and slice yourself a big piece of the home decor publication. It’s finger lickin’ fantastic!
Reichen: “Mommy, look at that lady! She has HUGE boobies!”
What my 3 year old said after seeing Kim Kardashian on the cover of this month’s Shape Magazine.
By the way, I’m not really sure where Reichen picked up that particular word. It’s certainly not how I refer to that specific part of the female anatomy. But if I had to guess, I bet the guy he heard it from lives in our house and his name starts with a D, ends with a D and has an A-V-I in the middle.
I was so psyched when I heard New York milliner, Eugenia Kim, was designing a collection for Target. I couldn’t wait to wear her straw fedoras and chic caps all summer long. But you know what I discovered when I went to the super store to try them on?
My head is too big. Literally. It didn’t matter how I tipped, turned, or tried, I could not stuff my colossal cranium into a single one of them.
I’ll never wonder why again when the doctor tells me my boys fall into the 95% on the growth chart when it comes to their head circumference.
I was cheering at a high school basketball game when I broke it, my finger. I crushed it under my hand doing a backhand spring while trying to impress my point guard boyfriend. When I heard it pop, I could barely believe it. I mean, somersaults were my specialty. I’d been doing them daily since I was 8 years old. After seeing me stand on my head day, after day, after day, watching reruns of Mork and Mindy, my mom decided her third grader’s time would be better spent in gymnastics class.
It was.
I freaked when I landed my somersault and saw my right ring finger hanging from my hand. I searched the stands for my mom. And when I spotted her, I told her I needed an x-ray, STAT. She agreed. And neither of us were surprised when the ER doctor said my finger was fractured.
For the next 4 weeks, I was in so much pain, I could barely sleep, eat, or drink. My damaged digit was so swollen, bruised, and busted I couldn’t write, hold a fork, or carry a backpack. And one time, when I dropped my fractured finger below my heart, the throbbing was so intense, I fainted.
And I’m not a fainter.
Well, maybe I’m a fainter.
I was 12 years old the first time I fainted. I slammed my head on concrete so hard when I passed out, I gave myself a concussion. That whole episode really freaked out my parents. And that’s such a bonus when you’re a preteen. So, in the name of full blog disclosure, I’ve actually fainted twice in my life.
Does that make me a fainter? Discuss amongst yourselves.
While I may or may not be a fainter, I know I’m not a whiner. I’ve had a few other experiences with physical pain in my life to compare the pain of my broken finger to, such as severe food poisoning, child birth and a kidney stone.
That kidney stone was no joke, either. I was 6 months pregnant with Reichen when that pesky pebble covered in spikes took its sweet time meandering its way down a tube inside me the size of a human hair. I was in the hospital for two days waiting for that bad boy to pass. It was brutal.
I. Know. Pain.
So trust me when I say, I would rather break my finger, have food poisoning, pass a kidney stone, and give birth all in the same day rather than sell our home. Having our house on the market has been the most painful thing I’ve ever done.
For example, last week, a realtor called and asked if she could show our house from 8:00am - 10:30am. I said yes. I got the boys up early, packed them in the car and took them to the gym to hang out while I worked out.
No big deal.
At 10:00am, the realtor called and said they were running late. Could she bring her buyers over between 10:30am and 1:00pm. I said yes. I picked the boys up from the gym daycare, popped them in the car, and we went to the mall to play and eat lunch.
No big deal.
At 12:30pm, the realtor called and said their car broke down. Could she bring her buyers over between 1:30pm and 3:30pm? I freaked. I told her I’ve had two toddlers out of the house since 7:30am. Both of them still take naps and they needed one. Bad.
She was so annoyed with me.
Big. Deal.
She said she could give my boys one hour to nap, but if I wanted to show my house, that’s all the time she could give me since her buyers were on a schedule.
Oh, really? The one where she was supposed to be at my house at 8:00 in the morning, not 3:00 in the afternoon? That schedule?
I said yes.
My boys usually nap for a couple hours every afternoon. That afternoon, I woke them up after one hour, packed them up, and drove them to the park to play.
The realtor was supposed to show our house from 3:30 pm – 4:30 pm. At 4:00 pm, the realtor called and said she now needed until 5:00 pm.
Seriously?
Seriously.
Normally, I would have shut this whole fiasco down. Under usual circumstances, there’s no way I would have let this realtor push me and my boys around like she did.
But we have not had a showing in weeks.
Did you know a house in our price range, in our area, sits on the market on average for 20 months? 20 months! So when we get a showing, we have to take it. So guess what?
I said yes.
And after all of that, we get feedback at 6:00pm from the realtor saying her buyers didn’t like our back yard.
And that was that.
So, you ask, would you really rather break a finger than sell a house?
Yes.
Yes, I would.
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Erin O'Brien on Oh, Dana Kellin How You Dissapoint Me.
I must disagree with you review on Dana Kellin for Target! I thought the pieces were very pretty. I purchased some pieces as gifts for my mother-in-law and mom and...Kelsey on Would A J.Crew Model Wear It?
You will rock this look. I know it.scott on Husbandism #47
i totally agree with dave! why do you put my friend thru such torture?kelsey on Husbandism #47
ha ha! i get "why do you watch this crap, you are an educated, smart woman." what ben says EVERYTIME i am watching ANYTHING on Bravo, especially Real...Jill on Birchbox Beauty
Love this! I want one! I'll have to keep this in mind for future gift ideas.