Friendship Plan

As BigGirl and I spilled ourselves and all of our miscellaneous carry-ons into the school parking lot this morning, she was positively in a tizzy.

"Mommy, I really need your help! I just don't know what I'll do about this!"

I, completely confused as to what was her problem - except for the fact that it was taking her a solid 5 minutes to get her skinny little bootie out of the backseat, with or without her backpack - hurriedly asked for clarification. (As my arms motioned like a flight attendant for her to move to the nearest exit - PRONTO.)

"I need a plan! Today is my day to play with Bestest BFF, but Friend B will want to play too...I just don't know what to do!"

Dumbfounded (though I'm not sure why I was surprised), I quickly preached the "more the merrier" schpeal. "You know, that's why a party is more fun than just a playdate. It's more fun with more friends."

"I guess I'll just have to tell her that it's my day to play with Bestest BFF...but, HOW WILL I DO THAT? HOW CAN I DO THAT? I JUST DON'T KNOW HOW I CAN DO THAT!"

At this point, resolved that she was NOT going to go for the merry threesome idea, and feeling my stress level frizz as fast as my hair in the morning air, I gave up. "Here's an idea: SAY IT. Use your words. That's why God GAVE us words!"

As we, at long last, began moving toward the building, BigGirl hauling her worries on her back and I hauling my entire office in a cart behind me with one hand and the all important venti skinny vanilla latte in the other, she laid it on the table.

"Mommy, I just need a Friendship Plan. That's all there is to it."

This is just the latest in a long line of heart-breaking girl tiffs that she has suffered through this year. While BabyGirl is busy planning her white wedding to Don Juan Jr. (scheduled to be held in her preschool classroom sometime this year... and we're all invited), BigGirl is crying in the hallway.

On the morn of her "Friendship Anniversary" with the all important Bestest BFF, she arrived at school all decked out in her finest diamond drop earrings, diamond encrusted arm cuffs, and a diamond (blinky-light) necklace. Apparently, not all first grade girlies are confident enough to pull off this level of adornment and SOMEONE felt the need to point out the fact that she does NOT have pierced ears. (Gasp!!! The horror!) Instead, she was wearing (scandalous, I know) CLIP ON EARRINGS!!!

Girls, girls, girls.

My BigGirl, not the type to brush something off without hurt feelings, nor the type to say to her classmate, "I know. These are clip-on. Not everyone has pierced ears." and let that be the end of it, was crushed. She refused to go to school. She came down with a headache and possibly a fever. She needed FireDaddy to come A.S.A.P. to pick her up.

Unfortunately for her...and my officemate who had to listen to the wailing...AND BigGirl's crying, I threatened an embargo on all television privileges if she did not hightail her hiny out of my office chair and march that bootie downstairs to her class. She went reluctantly (and still in tears). Funny, the Motrin didn't seem to help the headache and "fever"...but, with an apology, she was cured.

Why am I rambling about this, you ask? What is it I'm REALLY trying to say?

I am SO not looking forward to the day the hormones start to kick in. Dear God, someone may need to take me out back and put me out of my misery before then.

Scratch that.

I can't leave them alone with FireDaddy.

Dear God, someone is REALLY going to need to get me some stronger pills before then.

Manic Mondays

Treat yourself to a flashback while you read this post...

Am I the only one who feels like Mondays come around way too regularly?  

I can hear my mother in my head now, "Life would be so gaily, if it weren't so daily."  Is that the truth, or what?

I will spare you the whines...  But if you're in the mood for whining, check out this site.  It's rather amusing - in the watching-a-train-wreck sort of way.  Just let it be known that, next week, when I'm not trying to coerce a tempermental toddler (What other kind are there?) and an exhausted kindergartener (and we only have ONE DAY of extra-curricular per week) to cooperate and function on a fixed schedule, all the while managing my own blasted schedule, whacked out hormones, and filled-to-the-rim neurotic head, I will be blissfully enjoying a week of recreation and (relative) relaxation.  

Aaaaaaah...the promise of spring break is so close I can taste it.  

Isn't it amazing, though?  Like many things in life, it seems to get worse before it gets better.  Like suffering through sleepless nights listening to a puppy's high-pitched whine, begging you to allow them into your bed.  As they quieten temporarily, you hopefully close your eyes with a sigh of relief and fatigue...only to throw the lids back open a short minute later as the now ear-piercing whining returns.  

Like potty training a child.  The first day in Big Girl Panties/Big Boy Underwear may surprise you.  You may arrive at the preschool to, amazingly, find them still in the same outfit!  HOORAY!  NO ACCIDENTS!  Not to worry, Mommy Dear, tomorrow will be different...and the next day...and the next.  Better go stock up on changes of clothes because your laundry burden is about to multiply ...exponentially.

Like being pregnant.  In the beginning, you feel like crap - if you're lucky.  Then, nature has this way of teasing you for a while during your second trimester.  It grants you temporary relief from nausea, blesses you with a budding tummy (just enough so people actually know for sure you're pregnant), and fills your bra with bodacious boobs (that's for your hubs).  Until you run into the wall that is your THIRD TRIMESTER.  Ugh.  Your body hurts.  You can't sleep.  Braxton-Hicks contractions control your life.  Your varicose veins are so bad people think your foot is actually broken.  Acid reflux.  Lower back pain.  Even your MATERNITY CLOTHES no longer fit.  And that due date begins to feel more and more like a mirage in the desert.  

So, this week, in my final 4 days before my long anticipated, glorious Spring Break (cue angelic light and trumpeting here) I plan to run myself ragged, wake up early and work late, climb mountains (er...StairMasters?), run a marathon (over the course of the week) and completely deplete myself of energy and the zest for life....because...well...isn't that what I do best???

Happy Freakin' Valentine's Day.

Little Known Fact #214: Valentine's Day was invented by some lovesick teenaged boy lying around his room, pining for his latest girlfriend's pubescent body. They were just looking for an excuse to get some action.

All this mumbo-jumbo about this mysterious patron saint and legends of a crazy militant Roman emperor outlawing marriage is just a bunch of gump. It's a cover story.

Think about it.

We're coming off the heals of the holiday season. A very romantic, wintry season of gift-giving and traditions involving KISSING. Stealing a peck (or more) under some mistletoe, cuddling together to stay warm in the cold night air, girls swooning over their generous Christmas gifts, staying up late into the night with the object of your desire, stealing a New Year's Eve kiss. This holiday SCREAMS hormones! They needed to keep the momentum going! They needed just one more excuse to score big.

Who else could have done it?

A woman? Women try to get this sort of treatment from their men all year long. What makes you think a woman could have the power to get men throughout the world to behave like this at the same time?

A married man? I think not. Married men dread holidays like this more than anyone else in the world. It's just more pressure. What should I get her? Jewelry? Chocolate? Flowers? A card? Should I take her to dinner? A movie? Do I dare try to get creative and try something new or different? What if she doesn't like it? What if I make her mad? They just clawed their way out of the holiday season, by the skin of their teeth...what on earth would possess them to start that process all over again so soon? (They're not THAT stupid.)

A mother? Besides the above reasons why a woman alone could never have managed this...What would cause a mother to inflict this upon herself? Even IF your man remembers the holiday -- it still means more work for you. Addressing valentines with (or for) your children's classmates, buying teacher gifts, arranging for a babysitter (if you're so lucky to be taken to dinner or a movie), getting yourself dressed and ready (possibly requiring a new garment or shoes) while simultaneously preparing dinner and bathing children before the babysitter arrives (if you don't have to go pick them up). Not to mention finding time to buy a card or present for your husband. IN ADDITION to the usual routines and duties involved in running a household, parenting children, working outside the home, and being a wife-mother-daughter-sister-aunt-friend.

Valentine's Day Myth #69: The amount of time you spend primping on Valentine's Day is a direct indicator of how much you're "into" your valentine.

It's absurd, I know. However, some people actually believe this! I challenge you to do a little people watching on Valentine's Day night sometime. Notice the young couple (early college?) dressed up like they're going to a homecoming dance. Notice the high school kids at the movies - the girls wearing entirely too much make-up and the boys reeking of cologne. Their pores are actually oozing Obsession and Drakkar. (Oops, just aged myself there.) Seriously, do they BATHE in it?

Now, compare them to the married couple in their thirties. (For instance, Fire Daddy and I?) They're love has actually stood the test of time. What are they wearing? Blue jeans. Sure, they may have put on a nicer shirt than their usual t-shirts (or not), and they may have put on real shoes instead of their flip flops (or not). But THAT is love, folks.

Those youngins won't last the month.

After reading this, you might be thinking, "Boy. Some neurotic (yet classy) mommy must have had a stinky Valentine's Day this year..." Actually, I didn't. But that's another post entirely.

"You look kinda moley."

I can't believe I haven't shared this with you yet.



Recently, I bit the bullet.



As a teenager, I was blessed in that I never really suffered from serious acne. As an adult, I've had "bouts" of acne, much like any other person. You know - hot date, the week of your wedding, someone else's wedding, the night of that holiday party, etc. Anytime when you really wanted to look good for some reason.


Then, there were the hormone-induced acne breakouts. One example that really stands out in my memory is when I was first pregnant with the Littlest Princess. I recall complaining to family, friends, coworkers, the girl at Subway (anyone who would listen) about how my face did not look or feel like my own. By the time I discovered my new "physical condition", I had already drug my sorry bootie into Dillard's to seek help from the great, wise Clinique Lady. (Needless to say, my renewed faithfulness in skin care excellence did not last the duration of the pregnancy.)



Now, as I've, apparently, reached another stage of life, my face is changing yet again. (You see, according to my ob/gyn, your estrogen starts to drop once you reach my "advancing age".) Once again, I began to feel like my face was not my own. One day, my sleepy eyes were greeted by FOUR (count'em - FOUR!) brand new blemishes. What on Earth was going on?



After consulting numerous friends (and, of course, the great, wise Clinique Lady) and experimenting with a variety of new moisturizers, cleansers, foundations, and more, I broke down...and scheduled...an appointment...with a DERMATOLOGIST.

This was, you see, a multi-layered issue.

1. I felt a bit, shall I say, shallow. I mean, acne is PURELY cosmetic, right? Am I really that shallow that I need to see A DOCTOR -- A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL -- so that my face won't have four pimples? Apparently, yes.

2. Visions of my mother danced in my head. "How long has this mole been there? Are you sure it has always been there? You should see what your doctor says about it. You know, we all should go to get a skin check every year." Have I really reached this point in my life? The DOCTOR stage? The stage where you start scheduling your annual physicals, routine tests, bloodwork, mammograms, and skin checks?

Whatever. My vanity overcame my fear and avoidance of responsibility, I guess.

On the fateful day of said appointment, knowing I needed to take Big Girl with me, I was sure to pack her DS into the car as we left for school. (Insurance for good waiting room and examining room behavior. Thank goodness, it worked! She was completely entertained.) I also had planned ahead and printed all the new patient paperwork from the website and completed it in advance, in hopes of avoiding the usual 15-20 minute delay on your first visit to a new doctor. Additionally, this will surely shock you, they called me back right away! (I know! I nearly fainted!)

I can recall thinking, "They're going to laugh me out of this office. Isn't it just the way of acne? When you don't want it -- it's there. When you DO want it -- it goes away?" You see, of course, my recently renewed efforts towards excellence in skin care had, for a day or two, been working like a charm. I was, temporarily, looking like myself again.

So, as I followed the nurse into the examining room and she handed me a paper gown, I felt the need to explain.

"OK. Here's your gown. You can get changed and the doctor will be just a moment," she directed.
"OH, um, I'm here for an acne visit. Do I really need to do this?"
"Hmmm, I show you as a skin check. Well, um...." she quickly scanned the little bit of exposed skin around my collar bone (it was a cold day in hell Florida that day) and replied, "you look pretty moley. She's gonna want to check you out."

WHAT?!? I look pretty "MOLEY"? I'll have you know that those are FRECKLES, lady! Whatever...what do YOU know about skin and moles, Little Miss Know-it-all...

No, I did not say that. I just went along with it, like a good little girl. I sucked it up and stripped.

Little Princess, in her most nonchalant voice, trying to comfort her visibly frustrated mother, announced at this time, "Don't worry, Mommy. I won't laugh at you. Because girls can see girls naked, right?" Gee. Thanks, darling. What support. What a comfort to know you WON'T LAUGH.

After dawning the plush and oh-so sassy paper gown and climbing to the perch atop the examining table, The Doctor arrived. Her bedside manner was so-so. Hello? I'm naked here? Can you try a little harder to make me comfortable? Crack a joke or something?

After initial introductions were over (7.8 seconds), I started into my modest explanation and apology for scheduling an acne appointment with such, obviously, minor troubles. I carefully explained that, while I had not anticipated this, the nurse had instructed me to disrobe and prepare for a skin check. Surely she would take pity on me and instruct me to re-robe while she stepped out....this was, after all, completely unnecessary.

"Well, let's just take a look."

Rats! Foiled again!

I stand, baring my backside to my (not laughing) daughter, as she carefully inspected my body -- arms, hands, feet (top and bottom), legs, scalp, neck, back, chest (including INSIDE my bra), and basically everything in between. While she did not use a fine-toothed comb, she did feel the need to go retrieve her dramatascope. (Ok. Since that day...er, right now when I Googled it to find out how to spell it...I learned that it is actually called a "dermatoscope" - which makes sense. However, I could have sworn she said "DRAMAtascope" - which is much more DRAMAtic.)

OK, ready for another shocker? She used the dermatascope to inspect my three very dark freckles (I am NOT moley!) on my lower back....the same three that my mother inisted I have "checked out". After a little hemming and hawing, taking some measurements, and creating some drawings (which were nothing like Leonardo DiCaprio's art in Titanic), she announced they were probably nothing, but she'd like to check them again in six months to be sure.

NOW. Onto the problem at hand -- those unsightly blemishes! Well, remember how I made a point to apologize to her?

"I know this is really not bad, it's just that it's bad FOR ME." I went on to explain the biography of my face, what interventions I had already tried, and my rationale for finally resorting to a medical option. Her reaction?

"Oh, you DEFINITELY have some pretty inflammatory stuff going on."

Thank you very much, ma'am, for kicking my ego down a notch...again. I really needed that.

Heating and Venting

Excuse me, readers. Can I just vent for a minute, please? Duh. Of course I can...it's MY blog...

Is it just me? Am I just getting old? Is my blood thinning?

I am SO TIRED of being COLD!

I can deal with the outside temps dipping below freezing a dozen or so nights in the season. (Yes, I said a dozen. I live in North Florida, people.) Though I'd rather not have to deal with the "4 Ps", as my local weathermen so often call it, I will buck up and take it like a Real Woman if I must. I'm getting much faster at dawning my Payless Ugs and wool coat over my pajamas as I grab my trusty yellow flashlight and scurry out to drip the faucets and cover my few surviving potted plants.

I can deal with making a point to rush out and start the car up twenty minutes before I need to leave for school in the morning so it will be a steamy 76 degrees before my girls and I have to load up. Thank you to my oh-so sophisticated car thermostat and heater!

I can tolerate my Big Girl's mental meltdowns and emotional breakdowns every morning as she climbs in the car on days with temperatures 60 degrees or less. I also can tolerate the struggle my Little Girl puts up every darn day that we ask her to wear a jacket. I can plan my wardrobe to always include a light jacket so I do not turn into an icicle in my classroom each and everyday of the entire school year. (Thank you ever so much, Mr. School District Man, for taking away the school's rights to control their own heating and cooling systems.)

What I cannot understand is why my darling Fire Daddy is SO insistent that 65 degrees is a reasonable temperature at which to set your home thermostat. I cannot understand why it is acceptable for me to be forced to dress like a bag lady at 3 o'clock in the afternoon in my own home. I cannot understand why one warm-natured man gets to control the thermostat while three other residents suffer from frost-bitten fingers and toes.

I also cannot understand how two people can sleep in the same room and in the same bed at night, yet one requires an extra blanket, socks, long pants, long-sleeved shirt, and a hoodie sweatshirt, while the other sleeps in nothing but his underoos and needs to stick a leg out from under the covers to keep from getting too warm.

I also don't understand how, a mere handful of years ago, I was just as warm as he was.

I've got to wonder...is this another little favor for which I should thank my Heroine Hormones? Golly, girls. Thanks a lot.