Four Bikes And Crying

My daughter turns eleven on Wednesday and all she has wanted for months is a new bike. Not any old bike, but a beach cruiser. With big fat rims and the old fashioned styling. With wide handle bars and a basket. Being the type of mother who gives in to her children's every whim, I set out last week on what shall now be known as "The Great Beach Cruiser Quest". I hit the two stores that are in a 2 mile radius from my house. Target and Wal-Mart. Target and Wal-Mart were lacking in the beach cruiser department. They both had mountain bikes. Road bikes. Bikes with training wheels. Bikes with spinnin' rims. No beach cruisers.

When I returned from my great 2 mile radius journey I found that she had searched the internet for beach cruisers and found a hot pink one at Target.com that she wanted. I praised her for being so industrious. And then while she was at school, I bought it. This would be bike numero uno (bike number one).

When I first went on the website, Target.com, it informed me that I would receive free shipping on the hot pink beach cruiser. But when I checked out, they charged me $40.00 in shipping. Not exactly free. It had pushed the $130.00 price tag up to around $180.00 with tax. I may give in to my children's every whim, but only if it comes with free shipping. I called up Target.com customer service and was greeted by a man who spoke exactly like Apu in the Simpson's. He then went on to apologize that while the website might be advertising free shipping, my hot pink beach cruiser did not qualify. "Well, that sucks," I told him. "Yes ma'am, it does suck," he said in an Apu accent.

Feeling very taken advantage of, I went on to look at ToysRUs.com and low and behold they had the same bike. For $10.00 less! And FREE shipping! And they could get it there a whole FIVE days sooner than Target.com. I ordered hot pink beach cruiser number two. Then called up Target.com and cancelled bike numero uno. I then also wrote a scathing email to Target.com about how I would never shop in their stores again (a lie). They sent me back an auto-reply about how they were so very sorry to hear that (another lie), but they were looking forward to serving me in the future.

I went on with my day, cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, counting how many times my neighbors leave and then come back and other mundane things I use to fill my time when all of sudden I realized that I didn't check Walmart.com. If I got a good deal at ToysRUs.com, I would probably get an even better one there. I run back upstairs to the office and immediately log on. Much to my surprise, Walmart.com has an even bigger and better and cheaper selection of bikes. And they will ship it and assemble at my local store tomorrow. And this time it isn't any trashy hot pink beach cruiser. It is a mint green, classically styled beach cruiser with cream rims and brown leather seat and handle bars with a wicker basket for the low, low price of $89.00. I was instantly in love. I order it. It shall now be known as bike number three. I then called up ToysRUs.com and explain that I needed to cancel the order I just placed for bike number two. The woman on the other line (who does not have an Apu accent) tells me that my order that I placed two hours ago has already shipped. She has a tracking number and everything. Crap. I now have two bikes on their way to my house.

Later in the day Wal-Mart sends me a text that my mint green beach cruiser has arrived and is ready for pick-up. I take the seats out of my very large sport-utility vehicle and drive down to collect my daughter's new bike. But when I get there, there is a problem. No one can find it. I stand in customer service for 45 minutes while they search shipping and receiving, high and low, front and back for my bike. They finally tell me to just go home and they will call me when they find it. Two hours later I get bad news. I drive back down and they inform me that the bike was sold by another associate out of the back of the store. Turns out a Wal-Mart employee will sell you anything that isn't nailed down out of the back when no one is looking. And so my bike was gone. Even though it said purchased by me. It even had receipt stapled to it and said customer will be in today. Good-bye bike number three.

Wal-Mart places another order on-line for the same mint green beach cruiser. Hello bike number four. They tell me that it will be there in 48 hours. "Not good enough!" I tell them. I'm trying really hard to give off the annoyed customer vibe but all I can manage is the tired customer vibe. Apparently it's enough because the Asst. Store Manager gives me a gift card for $20.00. I'll take it.

Meanwhile, an unwanted bike number two, a hot pink beach cruiser has been delivered at my home (thank heavens it was in a box). My daughter is dancing around the living room singing "I know what that is! I know what that is! It's my birthday bike!" Very annoying. "It's not a bike. It's a desk. And it's going back." I tell her. "Then why is it from Toys-R-Us?" She counters. "Because," I answer. "It's a desk for your brother but it's too small so it's going back." She still doesn't believe me. But you should have seen her face when UPS showed up with a call-tag for the package and she watched them carry the box out and load it in the truck. She stood there not knowing what to say. "See? I told you it wasn't your bike." Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran upstairs. That scene alone should get me nominated for Mother Of The Year.

Anyway, Wal-mart called me early the next morning to tell me that bike number four was there and assembled and had an armed sentry standing guard until I picked it up. As the bike was wheeled out to me the Asst. Store Manager kept apologizing. "This has never happened before. I'm so sorry." "It's okay," I told her. "I got the cute bike. I got $20.00 bucks out of it. Let's call it good." She seemed very relieved that I wasn't going to be causing a ruckus in the middle of the store. I don't know. Maybe I should have. I probably could have gotten the bike for free.

What lessons did I learn from all this?
Lesson #1- The internet does not make things easier.
Lesson #2 - The internet gives you too many options.
Lesson #3 - Hide any packages that are delivered to your house before child thinks they are for them and then is crushed when they are picked up.
Lesson #4 - I need to be a more decisive shopper.
Lesson #5 - It probably would have been easier if when I went to Wal-Mart, and didn't see what I liked, I just grabbed the nearest associate and asked, "Whatcha got in back?"



Bike Number Four

Well? What do you think? Was it all worth it?

The Un-Luck Of The Irish

My brothers and I say that we are mostly Irish. With an almost 100% Irish mother and a 25% Irish father, we consider ourselves to about 60% Irish. I've always heard about the luck of the Irish but I'm beginning to wonder. My brothers and I have had quite a few spells of un-luck. Here are a few.

Me -
I've broken my feet three times. Yep. Three. One time was jumping over a baby gate.
Rear-ended the car in front of me with a cop right behind me. Can you say ticket?

Brother #1 -
Was struck by lightning. If that's not unlucky, I don't know what is.
Broke not one, but both of his legs, in the same place. Not at the same time though.
Fell off of a house he was roofing. I don't know if this is unlucky, or just uncoordinated.

Brother #2 -
Totaled new Volkswagen (it was even Shamrock Green) driving down canyon. Went over the side and drove over rocks. Car looked fine from the top, looked underneath and it was all torn up.
Had hood fly up and hit windshield on car on the freeway.

Brother #3 -
Broke his leg. Got it fixed. Broke it again three days later.
While I taught him to drive a manual transmission, he floored my car and took out not one, but two of the neighbors fences and their deck.

So are the Irish really that lucky? Or should we consider the fact that we are only partially Irish so we don't have the full extent of the maximum potency of Irish luck? Or maybe we should count ourselves lucky that we are all still alive and have all of our appendages still attached? Hmmm... I'm not sure. I know a couple of things though. My parents should have invested in some better driving lessons for us and taken out stock in the local orthopaedic surgeon.

Happy St. Patricks Day!!!

Erin Go Braugh!!!  (Ireland Forever!!!)

A Cat Pee Kind Of Day

I just spent the last hour cleaning up pee. Not any old kind of pee. Cat pee. The most unbearably fragant kind of pee there is. I will take people pee over cat pee any day of the week. Mostly because you can tell the people not to pee there again and they will listen to you. I can tell that cat over and over again, "Do NOT  urinate outside of the litterbox!" He just looks at me with that I-hate-you stare. Dang cat.

Just to be fair, it wasn't all the cat's fault. He's not incontinent. It's just he couldn't get to his litterbox in time. Or actually, at all. My sweet daughter closed the door to his "room", the upstairs bathroom, last night before she went to bed. Poor kitty. After I went to bed I'm sure he sat at the bathroom door for a good hour before he gave up and found other means of taking care of business. The other means ended up being my son's winter coat that had slipped off the hook.

This morning as my children are getting their backpacks and jackets on, I can smell a very familiar, very pungent aroma. Believe me, once you've smelled fresh cat pee, you never forget it. I start sniffing. First, I smell the kids. Negative. They had just showered so it would have been very suspicious if the odor was coming from them. I smelled the couch. Negative. The closet. Negative. Alexander's coat on the floor. Bingo! We have a winner.

After some choice words and tossing the cat into his "room" (upstairs bathroom), I began the cleaning process.

How To Clean Up Cat Pee - By Kelly (with love)
1. Yell at kids for leaving coats on floor for the cat to pee on in the first place.
2. Rumage around under sink for rubber gloves.
3. Pick up "soiled" garment and place in washing machine.
4. Select temperature. Scalding should do it. Dump in 10 times more detergent than needed.*
     *WARNING - Even with this much detergent it still might not get the smell out.
5. Return to the scene of the crime.
6. Carefully get on hands and knees and begin the sniff test.*
     *WARNING - The sniff test is as unpleasant as it sounds. It entails sniffing everything until you find more.
7. Discover that cat pee soaked through coat into very expensive wool rug.
8. Swear. Loudly, because the kids are at school.
9. Yell at cat through the bathroom door.
10. Retrieve carpet cleaner from the basement and all the cleaning attachments that go with it.
11. Use a full bottle of Resolve Carpet Cleaner and Febreeze* pre-treating soiled carpet.
     *WARNING - A must!
12. Run carpet cleaner on hottest setting over the soiled area for at least 15 minuets.
13. Smell carpet.
14. If it still stinks, return to step 11. If it's all clear, set carpet cleaner aside because you may need it again when it's dry. You can never really know if the smell is gone till the article is completely dry.

I got it cleaned up. I think. I finally let the cat out and he's hiding from me under my bed. I yelled at him, after all. He's not happy. Let's hope he doesn't crap under there.

After a couple of hours, I felt like I was still smelling little whiffs of it here and there. Smelled carpet again. Clean. Smelled all coats, shoes, slippers that were in a 20 foot radius of the incident. Clean. Where was it? Finally, while I was at the computer I found the offending article. My sweatshirt. That I was wearing. At that very moment. 

It seems while I was putting the coat in the washer (step 3), some dripped off the coat and onto my sleeve. Yes. It is as gross as it seems. I had to repeat steps 3 & 4. I then sniffed the rest of my clothing. Smelled clean but I wasn't taking any chances. I was afraid I was in olfactory fatigue. You know, where you smell the same smell over and over and eventually you stop smelling it? But everyone else still can smell it? That was what I was afraid of. I was afraid I was going to be the Stinky-Cat-Pee lady in the neighborhood. What? Your neighborhood doesn't have one of those? You're missing out. I stripped down. Gave myself a bio-hazard shower. Got out and did a sniff test again. I've pronounced myself clean. For now.

Botox And Brainwashing

I am a headache connoisseur. I know the difference between a migraine, a tension headache and the all mysterious cluster headache. I know if a headache has been brought on by not enough sleep, too much sleep, stress, bright light, or caffeine. It's like I'm a rare wine taster except that I'm a rare headache solver. I can feel one coming on and instead of swirling the glass of wine I rub my temple and intuitively say "Oh, this one is because I was up from 2 am until 3 am." Or "This one is because my child just told me that they have a huge project due tomorrow morning and it's 8:00 at night."

I know my headaches.

The reason I have such extensive knowledge relating to unexplainable pain in the head is because I have so many headaches. Migraines, check. Cluster, check. And, my all time fave, tension, BIG check.

Before we go any further, let it be said that yes, I have had a CAT scan. I have had a MRI. They came up with nothing other than the fact that the radiologist said it was the most beautifully formed brain they had ever seen.

Ah, my old friend, the tension headache. Starts out with a tightening between the eyes. Spreads to the temples. Feels like your head is in a C-clamp. Comes on every, single, day around 1:00 in the afternoon. Funny, that is also the time when I realize that not everything I have to get done today is going to get done that day.

I head to the doctor to get my fourth prescription and he starts by asking me how many ulcers I've had in the last two years. "Four." I answer. To which he replies "You know those are a direct result of the prescription ibuprofen." And I say "Yes. I know."  He starts to tell me that maybe we should look at other options. "Like what?" I ask. And, he answers "The dreaded needle."

My first reaction is that he is going to hook me to an IV drip to get the medicine into my bloodstream faster. But he says no. "Kelly, I'm talking a needle to your face."

WHOA. Slow down. My face? Like, right in my face? A shot? "Fifteen shots to be exact." He replies. "Fifteen shots of Botox."  He goes on to tell me how Botox is FDA approved to treat migraines and tension headaches and they are having great results and blah, blah, blah. I'm not liking this. I mean, call me crazy, but I like to make expressions. When I'm angry, I want people to know it. He starts throwing around words like kidney damage and liver breakdown enzymes. Ewww. Okay. If I have to choose between 15 shots of Botox in my face and my prescriptions permanently damaging my kidneys, I guess I will take the Botox.

I make the injection appointment for later in the week and leave the office. My internal dialogue begins. 'Is this who I am? Do I get Botox in my face? Do I need to start plumping my lips and dressing like a "Housewife" from any major metro area? Will my trendy friends embrace me? Will my hiking-outdoorsy friends shun me? Will my intellectual friends laugh at me?' As you can see, I talk to myself a lot. I told myself it really doesn't matter what anybody thinks. This was ordered by a real medical doctor. This is for a legitimate reason. I'm not vain. I just want my head to start feeling better.

I arrive at the appointment and much to my surprise, it's not the medical doctor who will be doing the shots. It's his nurse practitioner. And she is 26 and super perky!

Her - "Okay! Are you like so excited?"
Me - "To get shots? No."
Her - "You are like so going to love it! It will get rid of all those pesky worry wrinkles on your forehead!"
Me - "Well, that's not why I'm doing it. I get really bad headaches. And what wrinkles are you talking about? I'm only 36."
Her - "Oh, it will just soften you." (Apparently I look hard.) "Are you ready?"
Me - A big hand clap. "Let's do this thing."

Fifteen pinpricks and five minutes later, it was done.

Her - "How do you feel?!"
Me - "Um... the same."
Her - "Well, it takes a week to kick in. Where else do you want some?"
Me - "Um... nowhere."
Her - "Come on. Everybody wants more. Look at my face. I've had it all over."
Me - "Yeah, but I like to move my face."
Her - "You'll like so be back. Everybody always comes back for more."

She pushed me so hard to have more that you would think the Botox company was giving her kickbacks. I held my ground and only got the shots where the medical doctor prescribed them.

I left. About 24 hours later I noticed my daily tension headache wasn't nearly as painful as it usually is. Forty-eight hours later, I was headache free. I ran outside my house. I shouted to the birds, the trees, the mailman, "My headache is gone! It's gone! It worked! It really, really, worked!" It was like clouds had parted and I was seeing the sun for the first time in years. I called my family, my friends. I danced in the kitchen. I threw away all my medicine. Okay, I didn't throw it away but I put it high on the shelf instead of it's usual place on my nightstand. I was a new woman.

Now here is the thing. My forehead wrinkles are gone. Really. And I can still move my forehead. As I looked in the mirror, I started wondering what else she could do for me. She had mentioned the little wrinkles by my eyes. Hmm... I wonder how I would look with those gone? To which I slapped myself in the face and yelled "STOP!" If you go there, when do you quit? I could see myself in a years time with fish lips and size F breasts and ratty hair extensions and super tight cheeks. Not looking better, but definitely looking weird.

So now you know. I had Botox. And I really do love it. Where as I went to the office grudgingly, a week later I was singing the praises of botulism toxin. Does this change who I am? I hope not. When I tell people what I did I always include that it was prescribed by a medical doctor  (I am not vain). But I'll tell you one thing. Those Botox people? They sure know what they're doing.

Old Math, New Math, Red Math, Blue Math

Several years ago I was helping my then seven year old daughter with some complicated addition and subtraction. I've never been a math whiz but I figured I could at least handle addition and subtraction. Was I wrong.

She was struggling with triple digit problems. What to do when you've got more numbers than will fit in the one's column? How do I take 7 from 3? And so on. As I worked her through the first few problems I began to notice she didn't know what to do with the extra digit. I told her that she needed to carry it over to the ten's place. "Carry it?" she asked. "What in the blue-blazes is carrying?" She might not have said blue-blazes but I just want to emphasize that she had no idea what I was talking about. "You haven't been taught how to carry?" I asked. "What about borrowing?" And to that she answered "You mean when you borrow something from your neighbor and then you should give it back?" I could tell we were in for a long night.

I then spent the better part of an hour teaching my daughter the wonderful mysteries of borrowing and carrying. Don't forget to carry the one became my mantra for the night. I wanted to write it on her arm in permanent marker so she wouldn't forget. I repeated myself over and over and by gosh, she was starting to get it. But inside I was a little concerned that the school that she had been attending for the last three years hadn't even taught her how to borrow and carry. I mean come on, I know we are underfunded, but borrowing and carrying are staples of second grade math.

Towards the end of the evening when carry-the-one rolled off her tongue as easy as any Hannah Montana song she remarked to me. "Mom, you know this borrowing and carrying are a lot like regrouping. That is what they taught us in school."

Regrouping. Huh. Turns out the powers that be in the last two and half decades since I attended elementary school decided to change the sayings of borrow and carry to regrouping. You don't carry the one. You regroup. You don't borrow from the 7 to subtract the 3. You regroup. My poor daughter. I had filled her head with the cacophony of don't forget to carry the one! When all she needed was being told to regroup. For those of you out there who are not familiar with regrouping it is exactly the same as borrowing and carrying except they call it what? Regrouping. Now they say don't forget to regroup! It just doesn't have the same panache as don't forget to carry the one.

Boompa (Boompa is my stepdad) is helping my son Aidan out with some math this weekend. As I dropped Aidan off at Boompa's he asked what does he need help with. As I showed him the flashcards I had so painstakingly prepared Boompa asked me if Aidan knew how to carry. "They don't call it that anymore," I answered. "It's now regrouping." You should have seen Boompa's face. "Well, who's gosh-darned idea was that!?" I laughed and told him I didn't know. Everyone born before 1990 is basically screwed when it comes to math now. We don't even know how to regroup!

In other math news, my son Alexander is deep in the throws of pre-algebra. One thing I can say about pre-algebra is that it is exactly the same as when I was in it 23 years ago. I think he may even have the same kind of book I had. One night when he was just about to pull his hair out he had a mini-tantrum. "Why do I care what X equals? Why do things change from positive to negative when they cross the equal sign? And how do you even have negative numbers! Nobody ever told me they had negative five apples! You can only have five apples! Not negative! Why do I even have to learn this!" After I got him calmed down a little we continued to work on it and he asked me how I knew algebra. "Well, Alexander, I took pre-algebra, algebra, and then for fun, algebra 2 in school. Pre-algebra is the easy stuff. Just wait." He was none to happy to learn that there was more algebra in his future. He was then quiet for awhile and then he became inquisitive.

"Mom? Have you honestly ever used this? I mean honestly? Have you ever used algebra in your life?" He asked. So I sat back and thought. Hmmm... did I ever use algebra? Did I use it when I tried to figure out how many diapers I needed to get through the week when I had two kids that weren't potty trained? Did I use it to double chocolate chip cookie recipes? Do I even use to balance the check book? The answer to all of these is no. I had to be honest. "No. I have never used anything in my life close to algebra, Alexander. But being a stay-at-home mom doesn't require a lot of complex math."

This answer infuriated him. "Why do I have to learn it then?!" I answered the only thing I could think of.

"Because. You have to learn it because I learned it. Because your dad learned it. Your grandparents learned it. And because someday when you are a parent and you have a 7th grader you will have to help them with their algebra and you won't be much help if you haven't learned it. That is the whole reason." He couldn't argue with that logic. That night he learned that through out history there is a great chain of learning algebra and then never using it. And that night, he was just another link.

Love And All That Other Stuff

Today is the day where you tell the one you love how much you love them. Valentine's Day. Because of our circumstances, Matt and I regularly tell each other how much we love, appreciate, miss and cherish each other. Sigh... I know. We are so sweet. Since he already knows the things I love about him, I will tell you.

I love...

Matt's smile. It's perfect (without the help of an orthodontist). It lights up the room.

How he can put anything together or fix anything. He went to install a water heater once in an apartment and I said "Wait. Do you know how to do that?" And he just said "I'll figure it out." And he did.

How we have running jokes just between the two of us that have been going on for over a decade.

How funny he is. Even when he isn't trying to be funny.

That he is such a great dad.

That he never misses an opportunity to go to the school and have lunch with our kids.

That he isn't afraid to stand up for someone or something he believes in.

That he buys me flowers.

How from far away his eyes look brown but when you get up close you realize that they are really gold with green flecks in them.

How he never tries to change the way I feel. 

That he loves to explore as much as I do.

That he will dance in the kitchen with me to Nat King Cole and Dean Martin.

That he will talk in a French accent while we eat French food.

How he never sits back and lets someone do all the work. Matt is usually the first and last one working.

That he worked two jobs and went to school when our kids were little.

How he lets me put my cold feet on his warm feet in bed.

How strong he is.

How he grows a goatee because he knows I love it.

How he wears the argyle sweater I bought him that he doesn't like as much as I do.

If something needs to be repaired around the house, he does it right away. He doesn't procrastinate.

That he holds my hand everywhere we go.

That he also insists on getting my door.

That he doesn't get embarrassed.

How he doesn't question decisions I've made.

That he isn't afraid to express how he feels.

How he will admit when he's wrong.

How he writes me love letters.

How he is exactly the right height for me to rest my head in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

That he makes me my favorite dinner almost every time he comes home.

That he will be silly.

That he will go down a slide backwards to make the kids laugh.

And I especially love that no matter how hard on myself I am, how unattractive I think I am, or how much I think I've messed something up, he is always there to disagree with me.

Down For The Count

I am starting the long road to recovery after a nasty bout of food poisoning. Never in my life have I wished myself dead except when I am worshipping the great porcelain god in my bathroom. But I actually don't want to write about being sick. You've all been sick before. You know how it feels. When you feel like you've been picked up and wrung out. When you've thrown up and everything else (I don't want to mention what "everything else" is, but you know what I mean) for so long you are sure that you are as empty as Lindsay Lohan's bank account. I mean sick. What I want to write about is what it's like when there is only one parent and that parent is down.

As you know, my husband Matt is deployed in the Middle East.  So when I get sick, or break a bone, or have major surgery (all these things have happened) while he's gone things get interesting around here. This latest bout with illness wasn't that bad. I was really only down for about 18 hours. Well, not really down. I was actually up. But I was busy. Let's just say there was a lot of knocking on my door and asking if I was okay and if I was going to come out. Most of the time I responded with a shaky "I'm okay honey. I'll be out in a minute." That was usually followed with the sound of the dry heaves. I know. I said I wasn't going to talk about being sick. It just keeps sneaking in.

One of the worst things about Matt being gone is I have no back up. There is no one to run to the store for ginger ale. There is no one to get up and get the kids ready for school. Or to drive them to school. Or to sign their notes. Or make them dinner. Yes, I do have great friends and neighbors that when it gets really bad I can call. But my three closest neighbors were down too. The first had a fever and hacking cough. The second just broke her wrist. And the third has five small children (having five small children makes you down all the time). I was on my own.

My children actually were pretty good. Ashlenne got herself up and then woke up her brothers. She made breakfast for everybody. She did the dishes. Alexander and Aidan helped out too. But there was no way I was going to ask any of them to run to the store. Alexander volunteered reminding me of the time his dad let him drive in a church parking lot. I told him that my car had enough dents on it from just me driving it. It didn't need anymore. I pulled on my weird knit hat and big coat (same thing I wore to the post office to send Matt his pillow) and dragged myself to Target.

Why Target? Target is the closest store to my house that sells anything that resemble groceries. As I walked through the doors I could feel eyes on me. I knew I was white as a ghost with purple circles under my eyes. I was moving like I was made of glass. Don't touch me! I might break or throw up on you. I selected a few items to purchase and made my way to the cashier. I bought Sprite, ginger ale, Imodium, anti-nausea medication, applesauce, and ibuprofen. She knew exactly what was going on.

But that was yesterday. Today is a new day. I feel pretty good. I may even eat today.

Day to day life on its own is pretty hard with Matt gone. He is missed a lot. Christmas and birthdays especially. But he is more than missed on other days. He is needed. I needed him yesterday. He offered his support over the phone and I knew he felt bad. But what do you do? You power through, alone. You get better, alone. You hope that whatever it is that you have doesn't get passed on to the kids because there is nothing worse than being sick and then having to take care of them, alone. And even though he was needed yesterday, you know that you can manage with him gone. That somehow things will work out. They always do.