Memories of Spring Break Debauchery

Carson has been on spring break all week and, well, I have to say, we’ve been acting awfully wild and crazy up in here. Our house has become like a 24-hour party! Kindergarteners napping all over the house. Spent Capri Suns littering the floor. Empty pizza boxes under the beds.

Actually, that’s not really true, Silly! I think Carson is a bit too young and I’m a lot too old for a spring break filled with debauchery, don’t you think?

It has made me think back to my one and only wild spring break trip, way back in the 90?s. For all you youngsters out there, that’s what you might call the “olden days.” It just happened to be my 21st birthday and I may or may not have had a little fun.

Please enjoy this walk down memory lane to spring break 1996, as a single footloose and fancy free gal, compared and contrasted with spring break 2012, as a 36-year-old married mother of two.

Click on over to Southern By Proxy to read more (and see pictures of me bonging a beer in 1996!).

The Clean Microwave Dilemma

While I was away at Blissdom, my very kind in-laws came to watch the kids while Tate was at work. I think that I’ve admitted to being a fairly lax housekeeper, right?  Well, just in case I haven’t mentioned it: I’m a fairly lax housekeeper.

Before leaving for Nashville, I tried to get the house in order for my in-laws arrival.  The toilets were clean(ish) and the guest bedroom sheets were freshly laundered.  I even mostly cleaned the kitchen, with one exception.

I did not clean the microwave. I did not clean the microwave because I’m on a microwave cleaning strike and have been on strike for about three months.  And I’m on a microwave cleaning strike because SOMEONE in my house refuses to cover their food with a paper towel, thus making a big mess every time they reheat food.  That same SOMEONE then never cleans up after him (or her) (but not really her) self and apparently doesn’t care about the glop and gloop inside the microwave.

Well this someone RIGHT HERE (that’s me, okay?) I do care about the glop and gloop in the microwave, but I’m so tired of cleaning up after SOMEONE else’s messes. I am not a maid!

*deep breath*

We’ve been at a bit of standoff, one that I was SO going to win. Which is why, when I left, the microwave was not exactly clean.

Of course, I failed to mention my microwave cleaning strike to my mother-in-law because, really?  It’s pretty childish. I admit it, OKAY?! But childish as it may be, it made me feel like, “HA!  See that dirty microwave, SOMEONE in my house?  YEAH! Well, you’re just going to have to live with it!!”

When I came home, I discovered that the microwave had been cleaned.  By my mother-in-law.

Sure, I’m happy to have a clean microwave, but man.  All those months of work for nothing.

Conference Sweet Spot

I wasn’t born with one of those personalities where I can just talk to anyone. I’m AWFUL at making small talk. This year at Blissdom, despite promising myself that I’d suddenly become one of those super outgoing people, I spent a lot of time thinking about how I should be introducing myself to new people, how I should be joining in conversations, and generally being someone other than myself.

Here’s just a brief glimpse of the evolution of my social behaviors at Blissdom ’12.

Wednesday night: Arrive at the Opryland Hotel and panic when I see people I know, sure they won’t know me.  They do.  Hug awkwardly, followed up with nervous conversation.
Decide to hide in my hotel room until my conference wingman arrives.
Realize I’m hungry. Check Twitter and see if anyone I know is tweeting that they are going out to dinner.  Phew!  See Rachel‘s tweet and spend ten minutes giving myself a pep talk to walk out of the hotel room.
Spend a lovely dinner with several bloggers and even make conversation fairly easily with several people I had never met before.
Feel puffed up like a peacock for actually talking! To other people!
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Thursday.

Thursday: Say hello to old friends, hug, squee.
Go to a meet-up for new conference attendees.  Feel armpits become increasingly sweaty. Force myself to say hello and be friendly to three strangers.
Feel paralyzed with social anxiety after that three stranger exertion and decide to go back to my room.
Go to a cocktail party where I feel like a dud at making conversation.
Search the party frantically for people I know, while feeling annoyed with myself for not branching out.
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Friday.

Friday: See more old friends, hug, and squee.
Play the role of community leader during several photography sessions.  Smile and make small talk with new people.  Think to myself, “see?  This isn’t so hard!”
Go to lunch and completely fail to introduce myself to most of the people at my table.  Think to myself that NOW I’m going to introduce myself.  No, NOW.  Okay, for real-NOW.  Get up and leave without introducing myself.
Kick myself on the way back to my room.
Go to the Hallmark bloggers get together and talk to Rachel and think to myself, “Why can’t I talk to people easily like Rachel does!?!”
Head out for the Girl’s Night Out festivities and drink a few alcoholic beverages.
Feel a bit (okay, A LOT) of liquid courage.
Become incredibly friendly, talk easily with strangers, and even introduce myself to blog crushes.
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself on Saturday, minus the liquid courage.

Saturday: EXHAUSTION sets in.  Unable to make conversation with anyone.
Awkwardly smile and stand around most of the day, completely unable to spend the energy it would take to put a sentence together.
Go to the Girl’s Night In events and watch as people dance and sing Karaoke and think to myself, “Damn, I’m missing out. LIKE I ALWAYS DO.”
Go to bed promising myself that I’m going to be a new, chatty, super friendly version of myself NEXT year at Blissdom.

So in conclusion, if we met anytime other than Friday night-oh, say-between 9:30 pm and 2 am, then, “Hi!!  It’s really great to meet you!  What’s your blog about?  Where are you from?  Those shoes?  Are amazing!  Did you hear Rascal Flatts is coming Friday night?  Won’t that be fun?! Are you having a good time?  Blissdom is really great, isn’t it?!  Yeah, it’s been great getting to know you!”

 

If You Made Your Kid’s Valentines, You Can Skip This Post

This is for all of you who didn’t make Pinterest-inspired Valentine’s Day cards for your children.  No pictures of your kids with their fists held out, holding a blow pop, or Sweetheart boxes converted to iPods or iPhones, or Rolos made into dynamite.

My kids went to school today with store bought SpongeBob Valentines and EVERYONE SURVIVED.

You’re welcome.

Telepathic Friendships Probably Explain My Lack of a Cute Nickname

I don’t know how many times I’ve read Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Fifty times?  A hundred?  As dysfunctional and messed up as those women in the story were, I have always read with envy, about the lifelong friendship between Vivi, Teensy, Necie, and Caro.  They share an intimacy that can only be found between people with a long history. I mean, they even have nicknames for one another.

I don’t have any friends like that.  Sure, I have lots of wonderful friends, but none that I can claim a lifelong bond, filled with childhood stories, teenage angst, first phone calls to announce new babies.  And I wish someone had given me a nickname, silly as that sounds.

We moved from one state to another when I was a child, and this trend continued as an adult.  (Five moves in nine years, but who’s counting! Certainly not me!) I never really had the chance to create history with friends and I’ve found it so hard to maintain close relationships with those that live hours away in other states.

Thanks to Facebook, I still keep in touch with many of those friends I’ve made along the way.  There’s always a burst of excitement and an exchange of chatty messages when you first reconnect, but then once you’ve exchanged years of marriage, number of kids, current city, and work situation, these friends just become another part of my newsfeed.

With my current set of friends, most of our interactions are through social media and text messages.  We get together when we can, time carved between one son’s soccer practice and another’s husband’s work schedule.  I don’t think I’ve ever been the one to initiate one of these get togethers, usually I just come along for the ride. My friends are basically my social secretaries, setting up our adult playdates.

Blooming Expressions Vase, courtesy of Hallmark

I’m not the best at reciprocating. I function under the assumption that my friends are telepathic and magically know how often I think about them-usually hours too late. I’m always forgetting birthdays, mammograms, and grandma’s surgery.  I text when I should pick up the phone and call.

I’m much better at the face to face friendship, when my girlfriends are sitting right there in front of me.  Need someone to listen or laugh at the ridiculous morning you just spent wrestling your two year old into her car seat?  I’m totally your girl.  Need someone to remember to call you and encourage you?  I WISH I was that girl.  It’s those behind the scenes friendship duties where I fail too often.

Life gets in the way. Responsibilities of motherhood and marriage, work commitments, and laundry get in the way of me making a real effort to be the kind of friend that I wish I was. All those things?  They are petty excuses. It’s no wonder that I crave a deeper intimacy with my friends. I know I need to do better and nurture these friendships for them to grow and prosper.

I made that resolution this year-well, I made the same resolution the year before, too, if I’m being totally honest-to call and initiate more with my friends.  There’s a million and one things I could do to be the kind of friend I want to be.  Thoughtful gifts and cards, phone calls, lunch dates…I just have to DO those things.

Maybe one day I’ll end up with a cool nickname after all.

::

All this talk about friendship is brought to you courtesy of Hallmark for their Life is a Special Occasion campaign.  While Hallmark is compensating me for participation in this campaign, all opinions expressed are my own. They sent me the Blooming Expressions vase that I gave to a a very good friend of mine-who I actually called and invited to lunch. I KNOW! 

You can sign up for Hallmark’s e-newsletter to get special offers and discounts.

 

96 Mind Blowing Ways

We cleaned out the attic a few weeks ago and I found a Collector’s Tin of Crayola crayons that I’d kept from when I was a kid. It was something I’d forgotten all about, having received the tin as a gift when I was just a little too old to care about crayons anymore and so it was put away in a box and moved from apartment to apartment and house to house.

When I found it, I was sure that they’d all be melted since they’d been in a box in the attic for over a decade. Surprisingly when I opened the tin, the crayons were fine.

As a kid, one of my favorite things in the ENTIRE WORLD was a brand new box of crayons. Their smell!  Their newness! All in tact, their paper unripped. We’ve survived on remnants of restaurant crayons for all these years, with the exception of the box of 16 crayons that was on Carson’s Kindergarten school supply list.  My poor, deprived children.

Since Carson has recently started to be interested in drawing and coloring, I showed him what I found in the attic.

This box of 64 crayons, complete with built-in sharpener, and this kid! MAN! His mind was BLOWN!  He couldn’t get over 64 CRAYONS! In ONE box!  With a sharpener! He studied each and every crayon for a good half hour.

“Look, Mom!  This one says, ‘sky blue,’ and this one says, ‘salmon!’ Have you ever even HEARD of that?!”

He doesn’t want his sister to even look in the direction of the crayons, with her bull-in-a-china-shop ways.  He wants to avoid any risk of the 64 perfect crayons getting broken.

And when I was at the grocery store yesterday, I saw that they now sell boxes of 96 crayons.  I guess they’ve been selling these boxes for awhile, but I just discovered their existence.

Guess what he’s getting for Valentine’s Day? He is going to FLIP OUT!

A weekend of misplaced children, overpriced dinners, and snot.

I’ve been fighting off a cold since the beginning of January.  It started to set in the first week of January and again the 2nd week of January, but my body-the TEMPLE that it is-fought back valiantly.  That is until it couldn’t fight it off anymore, so I’ve been hacking, coughing, blowing my nose, and generally feeling like my head is a sloshy mess for two weeks.

Tate and I had a date set up for last Friday night, so despite feeling like crud-o-la, we packed the kids off to the trusty Parent’s Night Out program at one of the local churches.  This was the first time we’d been able to do this since August, Carson was actually sent off with the big, elementary age kids for the first time ever and Ella stayed with the other preschoolers.  The church makes you take a card with your child’s information on it and it must be used to get your child back.  No card-no kid.  I guess they send those to the dungeon at the church if the parents don’t have their card at the end of the night. I don’t want to find out!

The older kids only get signed in, no card was given when Carson was dropped off, which made Tate very nervous.  I’m protective of the kids, sure, but Tate is even more protective and he didn’t feel at all comfortable with the way it didn’t seem as secure for the older kids.  I brushed it off and assured him that he was being a little anal and to relax because it DATE NIGHT WOO HOO! (Cough, snort, where’s my cold medicine?!?!)

We ate at one of those Brazilian restaurants where the men come by with hunks of meat that they carve off for you.  Our date included three other couples- there was lots of laughing and wine sipping and general merriment.  It’s all fun and games until the bill shows up, amirite?!  HOLY $126 DINNER.  I mean, it was fun to hang out with friends and eat a lot of carved meat, but it wasn’t $126 fun.  This part of the post has nothing to do with anything-really it’s just a public service announcement:  BEWARE OF BILLS AT BRAZILIAN STEAKHOUSES.

You’re welcome!

So if you’re one of those sleuth types, you may have already realized that when we went to pick up the kids, we learned that the night didn’t go so well for Carson.  Somehow, not too long before we came to pick him up, Carson got separated from his class as they were leaving the movie room. He says that he went straight back to his classroom, but nobody was there.  Somehow he managed to make it all the way upstairs, where a volunteer eventually found him sobbing.

I have no idea what the actual timeline of events really is, I have no idea if his teacher ever even knew he was missing.  I’m confused how a child could get separated from his class and manage to make it past where I would have assumed adults would have been monitoring doors and up a set of stairs before he was found.  I don’t want to be alarmist or make a mountain out of a molehill, but you know-when you trust people to watch your child-and that is basically their SOLE responsibility, it’s a bit disconcerting that something like this could happen.

I hardly slept that night, waffling between being utterly FURIOUS and grateful that he was smart enough not to go outside or get lost in the church. (It’s one of those mega churches with a school attached, so he could have easily gotten lost in the building.)

I should have called the director of the Parent’s Night Out Program, but I was afraid that I’d cry and sound either like a blubbering mom or a maniac.  I did email the director, though, so that she’ll at least be aware that they LOST MY CHILD last Friday.  Obviously they need to put into place a better system for keeping track of kids.

Unrelated to any of this, my cold is almost gone!  So that’s good, right?